


Untouchable

by ercha



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: 1920s, Action/Adventure, Asshole Tommy Shelby, Birmingham City, Blue Eyes, Boss/Employee Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Drama & Romance, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Gangs, Guilt, Inspired By Peaky Blinders, Love, Love/Hate, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Minor Original Character(s), Original Character(s), Original Female Character - Freeform, POV Alternating, POV Female Character, Peaky Blinders - Freeform, Possessive Tommy Shelby, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, Sweetheart, The Garrison Pub (Peaky Blinders), Tommy Shelby Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:47:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 33
Words: 67,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28960458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ercha/pseuds/ercha
Summary: Thomas Shelby takes advantage of Alfie Solomons' failing empire, acquiring his long-time bookkeeper in the process.Mary Byrne has no interest in being played pawn between two gangs, but to survive in Birmingham, she has no choice but to put her trust in a dangerous man.
Relationships: Esme Shelby/John Shelby, Tommy Shelby/Original Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 103
Kudos: 205





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the purpose of this story, Alfie Solomons' business arrangement with the Peaky Blinders never got off the ground, the result is Solomons going under. Begins in an alternative-version of Season One (which is earlier than Solomons appears in the show, and I've also located him in Birmingham, rather than London). I've added a handful of original characters, among them, Mary (Solomon's bookkeeper) and Henry (a Blinder). Thanks for reading - feedback always welcome, as this is a work in progress!

Rumor had it, Alfie Solomons was in the twilight of his reign. Seated across from Thomas Shelby on the begging end of a bargain, he was hard pressed to deny it was true. He waved smoke out of his face, shooting Tommy a cursory glare before stating the obvious, "I don't like smoking."

"Filthy habit," Tommy replied, deadpan, smoke seeping between his lips.

Solomons offered a grunt in reply.

"Do we have a deal, or not," Tommy said, tired of waiting for the man to make up his mind, when they both knew he had barely a handful of power left to his name.

"I'll have Mary look everything over," he replied. "You'll have an answer by tonight."

Tommy's eyes narrowed a fraction, "Mary."

"My bookkeeper," Solomons said. "Trustworthy as the day is long."

"Where'd you find her."

"Fatherless," he said by way of explanation. What woman, with any other man to look after her, would choose Alfie Solomons. Tommy crushed the last of his cigarette, offering nothing further, understanding all too well the burden on a child's shoulders to survive in the absence of a parent.

Exiting the office he surveyed the space, in the back room he saw a bobbing blonde head, a distinctly feminine voice in a warehouse full of gruff men. He paused, then thought better of it, and moved away and out of the building.

* * *

It was less than a week later he was back, picking up the last of Solomons' debts to the Blinders. Their deal for extra time had spared him and his boys a few broken heads, and his warehouse was still standing. Business complete, Tommy took to the street, cash lining the waist of his pants, heavy overcoat concealing the bills. There was a woman leaving through a side entrance, delicately put together, lily pale against her dark hat and coat.

"Mary," he said, loud enough to stop her short. She angled towards him after a slight pause, face mostly hidden beneath the slide of her hat. "I've been waiting to meet the woman keeping Alfie Solomons' books."

She tipped her chin at that, gaze assessing, then flicking deliberately elsewhere as if to dismiss him. She was startlingly beautiful beneath the brim of her hat, with eyes so dark they looked black and flaxen hair worn too long to be stylish. She was far from the woman he'd expected to find working for Solomon, dressed head to toe in muted colors, wearing sensible boots, without a singular piece of jewelry. He'd imagined a hellion akin to Polly's status, but this woman was neatly contained, and from the looks of her, wanting nothing more than to blend into any background.

When she began to walk away, purposefully cutting around him, Tommy stepped into her path, far from deterred by any brush off she might attempt.

"Yes," she relented, finally facing him squarely. "I keep his books."

"I hear the cops aren't too far behind him," Tommy commented, gauging her reaction.

She lifted one shoulder, expression schooled placid, "I wouldn't know anything about that."

"No," he said, brow lifted, calling her bluff.

"Was there something you wanted, Mr. Shelby."

She knew him, and he should have guessed as much. He paused to light a cigarette, testing her patience.

"Looks like you'll be out of a job in a few weeks."

She offered no reply, unmoved by his prediction.

"I've a business a few streets down," he said, lifting a finger, she followed the motion automatically. "I could use someone to run the books and keep tabs on-"

"No," she shook her head. "No, thank you."

He nearly laughed at her polite rebuke.

"It wouldn't mean doing anything you're not already doing here."

Her expression was suddenly fierce, "I don't want anything to do with your blood money."

"Find me the kind that doesn't have any blood on it," Tommy replied. "I've been looking my whole life."

She bit her tongue against further retort, disinterested in arguing with the leader of the Peaky Blinders in the middle of the street.

"You know where to find me," he relented, understanding she had nothing further to say. She angled away from him, mouth compressed to a thin line, expression iced. He touched the brim of his cap, "I'll see you."

Color infused her cheeks at the familiarity, he couldn't quite swallow his smirk.

Her shoulders stiffened, "I very much doubt that," she returned, prim enough to suggest royalty. He was amused, in spite of himself, finally turning away and towards home.

* * *

Exactly a week later, Solomons' whole operation went under. Three days past that Tommy was interrupted at the Garrison.

"What's the matter, Harry."

"There's a woman outside," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Asking to see you."

Tommy paused, "What kind of woman."

"Pretty," Harry offered. "Beat up around the mouth."

"Blonde," Tommy said, eyes narrowed a fraction.

"You know her," Harry asked, brow lifted.

"Bring her in."

Harry disappeared from the gallery doors, reappearing only moments later with Mary Byrne under his hand.

"Here's Mr. Shelby."

Tommy set aside his newspaper, taking inventory of her disheveled state. She was wearing no coat and her white blouse was torn at one shoulder. Her hair had begun to jump free of its pins, releasing a wash of gold curls over each shoulder. She was smaller than he remembered, freed from the bulk of her coat, gray skirt cinched to reveal the lithe of her waist. She was wearing the same plain boots, ears empty of baubles, neck and hands the same. The only addition to her person was a blackened eye and bloody mouth. Both in striking contrast to her wan cheeks and the muted colors of her clothes.

She swallowed what was left of her tattered pride, the line of her mouth spoke to defeat, "I need your help."

"We're not much for charity," Tommy replied, as Harry shut the door behind her, leaving the two of them alone. She had the wherewithal to look nervous. He lit a cigarette, "Who hit you."

"Does it matter," she said.

He shook out his match, icy eyes meeting hers, "I wouldn't ask if it didn't."

"I'm here about the job you offered-"

"I'm not talking business until you've answered me," Tommy interrupted easily, levelling her with a penetrating stare. "Who hit you."

"Alfie's man," she said. 

"Which one."

"Ben."

"Ben," Tommy repeated, as though committing the information to memory.

She pressed forward, unsure what an advantage over this man looked like, "I need a job."

"What kind."

"I'm a hard worker, Mr. Shelby," she said. "I won't be any trouble to you or your-"

"I asked you a question," he interrupted, eyes narrowed, piercing. "What kind."

She gritted her teeth, he wanted to hear her say it.

"Bookkeeping."

"You understand nothing about my business has changed in the past ten days," Tommy said, smoke seeping between his lips.

"Yes, I-"

"Then what interest could you have," he interrupted. "In being my bloody bookkeeper."

Her cheeks colored, their previous conversation sprung up between them. Her changed circumstances having compromised the morals she'd proudly displayed at his degradation not so long ago.

"I don't have a choice," she said, voice steady, refusing the urge to beg. "I need money."

"What happened to Alfie."

"Haven't seen him in three days."

"Three days," Tommy said, brow lifted. "Is that how his man got his hands on you."

His misdirection startled her, the answer out of her mouth before she could rethink it, "Yes."

He nodded, "You're telling me you can't go back there."

"I won't."

"And if you do."

"He'll do worse than blacken my eye."

"You're asking for more than a job, Ms. Byrne."

The line of her mouth tightened at his titleage, mocking on his lips.

"You're asking for my protection."

"Not yours," she corrected coolly, disinterested in owing any one man. "The Peaky Blinders."

"What's the difference," he said.

"You're one man."

He was quiet, then, "The only man who counts from where I'm standing,"

She steeled her voice, shoulders squaring, "You told me to come find you if I wanted a job."

"So I did," he nodded.

"I want the job."

"There are other considerations to be made."

"Like what."

"How far Alfie's boys will go to have you back."

"Ben doesn't have a say in what I do."

Tommy blew smoke between them, "They may think differently."

"You'd turn me out," she demanded, unable to keep the snap out of her voice, despite the warning in his eyes. "Knowing that if they come for me there won't be anything to stop them."

His cigarette seeped smoke, his silence stretched long enough to make her sweat.

"What did Ben want from you."

She blushed, dark eyes barely holding his, "He wasn't asking."

"I can see that," Tommy replied. "What did he want."

"Me," she said bluntly. "He wanted me, and when-"

Raised voices interrupted her, Arthur appeared in the doorway at her back, "Solomons' boys are outside," he said without preamble. "Leader says he's looking for you." He broke off, looking Mary up and down, "And from the sounds of it, you too."

She faced Tommy as Arthur disappeared back out the door, refusing to beg, asking simply, "Will you help me."

He crooked a finger at her, "Come here."

She hesitated, prepared to ask what he intended that required her to come any closer. At the sound of Ben's voice, growing louder and nearer, and she abandoned any pretense of fair, penning the distance between them. He stood, discarding his cigarette to unbuckle his belt, electric eyes on the front of her blouse, "Take this off."

She covered his hand with hers, stopping the motion, furious all over again, "What are you-"

He ignored her protest, pulling his belt fully open, pants unhooked, "Ben will only let you go if he has no reason to want his hands on you."

"And my being with you will do that," she said, searching his expression. They were nearly eye level standing toe to toe, her heeled boots giving her an extra two inches of height.

He nodded simply, "Yes."

"You have the power to make a woman untouchable."

The faintest lifting of his mouth beguiled a sense of humor she hadn't known existed. He leaned a fraction closer, rough voice dropping even lower, "Strip for me, Ms. Byrne."

The doors of the Garrison were flung open, she had barely half a second to contemplate the consequences of becoming untouchable before dragging Tommy's mouth to hers. His free hand shot through her hair, further unsettling pins, the other yanked the torn shoulder of her blouse, revealing one rose peaked breast to his palm. When she murmured her protest against his mouth, he swallowed it with a low groan.

The gallery doors opened, Ben in the reveal, flanked by Arthur and John. Tommy belatedly lifted his head, keeping his close hold on Mary, wanting a better look at her abuser. Ben was average height and non descript looking aside from mean eyes. Tommy had the faint urge to teach him a lesson in blood letting.

Instead, he met Ben's gaze, insolent, palm still sealed to Mary's naked breast, "What's this."

"This is where you ran off to," Ben said, the sneer not quite reaching his eyes. She returned his stare, unable to look either Shelby boy in the eye with their brother's hands running her body.

"Have you fucked her."

"What's it look like," Tommy said, slow enough to scald.

Arthur leered, playing along, "How was she, Tommy."

"Tight," he offered succinctly, she stiffened against him, otherwise unmoved by his vulgarity.

"Too skinny for me," Ben snapped, turning away, outmanned and outplayed. Arthur shut the door behind them, offering a final wink on his way out. Mary immediately retreated, hands flurrying from her torn dress to her mused hair, ruined in every way.

"You'll see no trouble from him again."

She looked up, Tommy was relighting his cigarette, as though they'd never touched at all. Her mouth felt branded, her breast ached, she was immediately furious.

"I suppose I should thank you."

"For that," he said. "Or the job."

Surprise lit the line of her mouth, but her eyes remained wary, "What of your other considerations."

"I've made them," he replied. "And my decision is to hire you."

"Hire me," she said faintly, unsure if she'd really saved herself any trouble at all.

His brow tilted, voice deceptively quiet, "You're welcome."

"Thank you," she relented, hair coming undone around her shoulders, looking like something out of his wilder fantasies.

Despite her blonde hair and cream complexion, she had gypsy eyes, dark enough to dim a man's senses. Tipped at either corner, giving her the gauzy appearance of something otherworldly, even feline. Tommy was hardly startled by the sight of a beautiful woman, but hard pressed to deny she'd snared his attention well enough to haunt. Delirium dreams from the opium he smoked, an ill fated attempt to disappear memories of war, and tunnel digging from his mind, hadn't seen fit to stop her. She'd entered his dreams twice since he'd stopped her on the street, dressed in muted colors, eyes black as coal, mouth moving around words he couldn't quite understand. He felt the imprint of her breast against his palm as though she'd burned him, he made a fist, an attempt to erase the muscle memory.

"You'll start tomorrow."

He regretted it already, half hoping she'd refuse him, put off by his kiss.

"Fine."

"Fine," he agreed. She edged towards the door, hand on the knob when he beckoned her back. "You'll need something over that dress."

"I don't have anything else."

He pushed open the galley window between the bar and lounge, and within half a minute the bartender produced a shawl. She accepted it from Tommy's hand, unfurling it along her shoulders, grateful for this small kindness.

"Until tomorrow," he said, businesslike in his dismissal. She nodded, fighting the urge to flee as she stepped through the door and out of sight.


	2. Chapter 2

Her first day on the job she'd been handled with kid gloves by Harry, who was unused to Tommy hiring women.

"Mr. Shelby said I'm to help with his books."

Harry shook his head, "He told me to keep you behind the bar."

Relief flooded her, she made quick work of impressing him, working easily around his bluster, refilling pints before he'd noticed they'd gone empty, and tidying the stock room during any lull in customers. Working at the Garrison proved safer than she'd anticipated. Whether it was at Harry's request, or by nature of the man that had gotten her the job, she was left mostly alone.

Half a week into her employment, Tommy appeared midday, cigarette plugging his mouth. Dressed in a stiff collared shirt and tweed, he was hardly a man she'd think to fear, but his reputation simmered close to the surface. His capacity for violence was written in the flex of his hands, the cutting line of his gaze, demanding respect be paid. She understood his appeal, well versed in power hungry men and the interest one could attract. For all his rough edges, he was a man built to be admired.

He removed his cap, revealing crystalline eyes buzzing for her attention and razor sharp cheekbones, the only softening was the curvature of his mouth. He gestured to her eye, "This looks better."

His voice was a particular blend of smoke and whiskey, no matter what time of day, roughened to rasp.

"It is," she replied, willing her voice even. She felt the brand of his hands like a tattoo, the sight of him bringing the memory into sharp relief.

"How's Harry treating you."

"Fine."

"Have any of Alfie's boys been by."

She shook her head, thankful Tommy's protection by extension of employment at the Garrison had saved her from any further retaliation.

"No problems, then."

"No," she said. Half curious what his solution would be, had she answered any differently. "I thought you needed a bookkeeper."

He was quiet, then, "I thought you wanted to keep your hands clean."

"I was surprised, is all."

"Call it a moment of weakness," he said, already turning away, as Arthur came through the door.

"John's got him outside," Arthur said, stopping beside Tommy. "He's a fucking mess."

Arthur had the rangy build of a taller man, though he didn't stand much higher than his brother. For the few times Mary had seen him, he was almost always drunk, hair prone to falling over his forehead if not contained by his cap. Today there was blood stamped beneath each one of his finger nails, she tried not to stare.

Tommy nodded, eyes returning to Mary, "I need towels."

"Bring them around back," Arthur instructed. She bundled bar mops under her arm, following in their wake.

She was nearly to the end of the building when Tommy intercepted her, shaking his head, "Nothing you want to see."

She bristled, "I can decide that for myself-"

His mouth flattened, unaccustomed to women, anyone, who talked back, "Not this time."

Arthur pulled the towels out of her hands, "Go back to the bar, sweet Mary."

She bristled at his endearment, barely curbing the instinct to slap his hand when he chucked her beneath the chin.

"Now, Mary" Tommy snapped.

On cue, John appeared at her opposite elbow, broad shouldered and possibly the tallest of the three brothers, though it was hard to tell because he seemed in constant motion. He picked up her elbow, pressing her in the direction they'd commanded.

"I've seen blood," she commented quietly.

"Not ours," John replied, shaking his head. "Not yet."

She understood the implication, that Peaky violence, and its aftermath, was in a league all its own. She allowed him to walk her inside and behind the bar, offering no further comment. Within an hour the trio reappeared, worn out, a man she didn't recognize between them. His shirt was black with blood, his shoulder bandaged, the towels, she imagined, tossed in the nearest bin.

"Whiskey," Arthur called, lifting his arms like an orchestra conductor.

Mary collected the glasses and bottle. When she turned, Tommy was on the opposite side of the bar, hands extended to receive Arthur's bounty. Stripped of his overcoat and jacket, biceps banded with twin sleeve garters, he looked nearly human, save his striking eyes. Before he turned to go, he paused to hook her attention, "You'll learn to listen when I tell you to do something."

"I work for the bar, Mr. Shelby," she replied, voice smoothed to indifferent. "Not the Peaky Blinders."

"I'll see you begging to be on the books before the week is out," he returned, voice deceptively quiet, expression severe. "If you continue to disobey me."

"You think you own the world, Thomas," she said, watching a muscle jump to life along his jaw.

His smirk was grim, "Don't I."

"Not mine," she replied. "Not me."

He rapped one of the glasses on the bar top, a challenge sprung up in his icy eyes, "We'll see."

* * *

In the next month she saw more bloodied men than she thought possible. Some near dead, others wishing they were dead, and always close behind was Thomas Shelby. It was nearly closing on the first Wednesday of the month, the tables mostly emptied of men, when he arrived alone. It was the first time she'd seen him come in for a drink by himself.

"Whiskey," she said, when he stopped at the bar, removing his overcoat.

"The bottle," he replied. He struck a match, while she poured his drink. He was halfway through his third glass when he asked, "Are you looking to make some extra money."

She paused, gauging his sincerity before replying, "Not with you."

He smirked, smoke seeping between his lips, "If it's me you're looking to avoid, Ms. Byrne, you're working in the wrong place."

"Not you," she said, carefully. "Just your business."

"You won't work for me," he said. "But you'll take my protection."

She blushed at his rebuke, hard pressed to deny he was right. She'd run from Solomons' boys, straight to the one man in Birmingham she knew they wouldn't cross, consequences be damned.

"Not yours," she corrected, voice even. "The Peaky Blinders."

He didn't take the bait, running a hand through his untidy hair as he finished his glass.

"You offered me work," she said. "When I was made desperate I-"

"Desperate," he repeated, expression turned predatory, blue eyes sharp enough to pierce.

"I told you from the beginning," she shook her head. "I don't agree with the business you do."

He stamped out his cigarette, "But you'll reap the benefits."

"You may have found work for me, but I'm the one who's kept it," she replied, temper flaring. "Harry isn't-"

"Harry is whatever I want him to be," Tommy interrupted, disinterested in any argument she may make.

She surveyed him, unimpressed, "You act like you own this place."

He lit another cigarette, replying, "I do."

"You do," she said, brow lifting.

"That's what I said."

She studied him, weighing his sincerity, "Since when."

"I signed the paperwork yesterday."

She offered no reply, remembering Harry's long lunch.

"Is this the beginning of an honest living," she said, brow lifting a fraction higher, the picture of innocence.

He ignored the bait, "About that money."

"My answer hasn't changed."

Harry appeared at her elbow, "Is Mary treating you alright, Tom."

"How much are you paying her," Tommy said, eyes never leaving Mary. She barely heard Harry's response, focused entirely on Tommy's cut from stone expression. There was a beat of quiet between them, and then, "I want you to cut her pay by half."

Mary stared at him, incredulous, "He wouldn't."

Tommy lit a new cigarette, unmoved, "He'll do whatever I tell him."

"You need me," she reasoned, looking to Harry, vying for his attention. She'd worked hard to make herself quickly indispensable.

Tommy released a laugh, genuinely amused, "Bartenders are a dime a dozen in this town."

"I'm-"

"You're fucking fine," Tommy continued, eyes burning over as much of her as he could see from across the bar. When her cheeks turned a gratifying pink, he relented, once again meeting her gaze, "But he could replace you tomorrow."

"She's good, Tom," Harry offered, unconvinced even to his own ears.

"She's replaceable."

"Of course," he demurred, falling in line. Mary shot him a scathing look before turning her attention back to Tommy.

"Cut her pay," Tommy affirmed, stamping out his cigarette.

"No-"

He paused, catching her gaze, repeating, "No."

"You can't."

"I just did."

She shot out from behind the bar as he made his way to the door, ignoring Harry's commands to stay put. She wedged herself between him and the street, arms shot out to block the doorway, refusing to be ignored.

"I need this money."

"I offered you more," he replied, unmoved.

"I can't afford to lose half my pay."

He shook his head, "You won't."

She stared at him, eyes narrowing as she understood what he'd set into motion, "You plan to make up the money Harry's docking me."

"And think," he said, shaking his head. "You could have had double."

"You're shit-"

He took a single menacing step forward, hands flexing at his sides, "Careful."

"I need this money," she repeated, an edge of pleading.

"And you'll have it."

"Not like this," she returned.

"Like what," he demanded, a warning sprung up in his light eyes, one she chose to ignore. "My money isn't good enough for you."

"Blood money," she spat.

He bit back a savage curse, then, "You'll do what I tell you," he returned, fury making him cruel. "Unless you'd like to try your chances with Alfie's boys one more time."

Her shoulders slumped, drained in the face of his manipulation, the direness of her circumstances leaving her little room to argue. He watched her closely, waiting for further rebuttal. She schooled her features indifferent, miming his signature stone cold expression. He saw the change in her face, understanding it was her way of issuing a dismissal.

He barely curbed the urge to shake the hell out of her, "Get out of my way."

His warning was delivered through clenched teeth, angrier than she'd yet see him. She stepped aside, watching as he swept past her and out the door, jaw tightened to tic. Harry's reprimand greeted her at the bar, she tucked her chin, aiming for contrite, all the while burning in her fury.

He made good on his promise to dock her pay. What he'd failed to mention was bookkeeping was a class above bartending. He did far more than make up for the lost money when she began keeping the Garrison's ledgers. She bit her tongue against further argument in his presence, aiming for agreeable, now that she'd seen the money he could afford her. In her mind's eye, the Garrison, the Blinders, would all be ancient history one day. The money she made would be her ticket to another lifetime.

The first few weeks of work she spent mostly under Arthur and Polly's dueling temperaments, learning how to walk a fine line between appeasing and productive. Polly was gruff, but agreeable if you agreed with her. Arthur was an animal all his own, prone to violent mood swings, peaks and valleys she'd seen before in soldiers returned home from war, never again quite themselves. She worked to win them both over, and much to Tommy's dismay, succeeded on both counts. He left her mostly alone, ordering the occasional whiskey, or peppering her with questions about incoming shipments. Routinely annoyed with her quick responses, and the steady confidence his assorted family had come to invest in her bookkeeping.

* * *

The weekend after the races, the Garrison was full enough to bust. When the Shelby brothers arrived, Harry had whiskey and glasses already laid out. It was nearly an hour later that Mary appeared behind the bar, taking quick inventory of their supply. She wore navy from head to toe, hair yanked into a severe twist that appeared to be in danger of uncoiling at any moment. Tommy made a conscious effort to keep his eyes off the lush of her ass when she leaned over the bar top.

"She lasted longer than I expected," John said, eyes on Tommy, barely containing his grin. Tommy offered no reply, whiskey glass to his lips.

Arthur shouted her name, beckoning her closer. Tommy watched her approach, the slow shoring of her defenses at the sight of him. He lit a cigarette, suddenly overcome by the urge to have something to do with his hands.

"The whiskey I've been saving," Arthur began issuing instructions, directing her to procure the bottle, and fresh glasses, and pour for each of them. She nodded her understanding, slipping between patrons and overly full tables to Arthur's office in the back of the house. Tommy stood, following her without a word, ignoring John's stare, cigarette reaping smoke between his lips.

She was inside Arthur's office, standing on his desk chair to move a wall panel. Tommy clapped when she revealed a hidden compartment stocked with bottles, startling her.

"Did you need something," she said, brow lifted.

"I wanted to thank you."

"Thank me," she repeated, unmoved.

"You've kept the books tighter than Arthur for weeks, now."

Her smile was wry, "The competition was fierce."

He watched as she stepped free of the chair, bottle in hand. He edged the distance between them, one hand finding the wall over her shoulder. When she turned they were toe to toe, surprise lit her dark eyes at his closeness, the whiskey bottle caught up between them.

"Fierce or not," he shook his head. "You've managed well here."

Her chin angled slightly, "I told you, I wouldn't be any trouble."

"No trouble," he repeated, releasing a rare laugh, genuinely amused and devastatingly handsome.

"No, Mr. Shelby," she affirmed, searching his expression for a joke that wasn't there. "No trouble."

At her formal address his blue eyes narrowed a fraction, simmering, "There was another reason I hired you, Ms. Byrne."

It took her a moment to find her voice, finally, "What reason could you-"

He pressed a gentle kiss to her half open lips, fingers scraping through curls, and then all of him retreating before she had time to react. By the time she pulled a full breath he was out the door, the nearly finished cigarette replaced between his lips. She pressed two fingers to her own mouth, torn between desire and knowing better.

"Mary."

She jerked at the sound of his voice, he'd paused some steps outside of Arthur's office, mouth tilted to smirk as he watched her, "I'll see you."

Her expression deteriorated, cheeks running red at his come on, an echo of their first meeting. When she opened her mouth to reply he moved further down the hallway, disinterested in arguing, committing to memory the lost look on her face after his kiss. He was absorbed back into the revelry of the bar, Arthur's arm slunk around his neck, John proffering fresh cigarettes. Mary delivered Arthur's whiskey, avoiding his gaze, before disappearing. Every time he blinked her image appeared on the insides of his eyelids, burning like a sin.


	3. Chapter 3

"Filing needs doing."

She looked up, Arthur was across the bar, elbows to the wood, grinning.

She set aside her pencil and tally sheet to offer her full attention, "Then go file."

He laughed, endeared to her sharp tongue, "I have business, otherwise I would."

"You're asking me to do it for you, then."

"Tommy pays you enough, don't he."

She tipped her head to one side, considering. Arthur pointed a finger at her, "That's between you and him, I'm not getting in the middle of it."

"Where's the filing," she said, setting the bar mop aside.

"All on my desk, sweet Mary" he said, blowing her a cheeky kiss.

She left Harry behind the bar, weaving her way through tables to Arthur's cluttered office. She organized the leaflets, belatedly noticing they were mostly about the sale of the Garrison. She organized the pages slowly, noting the signatures, and the dates of each agreement. By the time she was through she was furious, hands shaking. Rounding up the last of the paperwork she stalked free of the office, scanning the room and coming up empty.

"Where's Mr. Shelby."

Harry lifted his head, taking in her tight lipped expression, "What's on your mind."

"Where's Thomas."

"The gallery, but I-"

She ignored his placating, marching into the galley and slamming the door behind her. She dumped the papers onto the tabletop between them, watching Tommy light a fresh cigarette, expression unreadable, "Mary."

"How long have you known you'd buy the Garrison."

He stared between the mass of paperwork she'd delivered and her expression, a flicker of understanding registered in his eyes, "A few weeks," he replied, voice neutral.

"The day I came to you, to get away from Ben," she said, voice beginning to rise. "You knew you were buying Harry out."

"Yes."

"You weren't doing me any favors having him take me on as a barmaid," she continued, cheeks flushed pink. "You were biding your time until he signed the bar over to you and your brothers."

He released a steady stream of smoke, offering no reply, his silence as damning as any answer.

"You made me believe you'd done me a charity," she pressed, barely curbing the urge to stamp her foot. "Barmaid, instead of bookkeeper-"

"I gave you a job when you needed one, Mary."

"You self righteous, self serving, bastard-"

He stared at her from his seat at the table, smoke curling between them, his expression cut from stone. His utter silence was possibly more terrifying than any response he could have offered.

"I'll thank you to do me no favors in the future, Mr. Shelby."

She spun on her heel, the door halfway open before he spoke, "Mary," she paused at the sound of his voice. "Sit down."

She turned to level him with a glare, "And if I refuse."

"I'll put you in the chair myself and have Harry tie you to it."

His expression was unchanged. His promise delivered so succinctly, so easily, she nearly missed the threat of violence.

"You wouldn't."

He rapped his knuckles against the galley window. Harry pressed the shutters open, whiskey in hand, "Tommy."

He stared at her, ice blue eyes flat, "What'll it be."

She was perfectly still, weighing her chances of getting out of the room, out of Birmingham for that matter, unharmed. He watched her, smoking, the picture of insolence. Finally, she slammed the door shut, disinterested in giving him any excuse to put his hands on her.

Tommy motioned Harry gone, "Nothing for now, Harry."

He nodded, disappearing, the window slinging shut in his wake.

"Sit down."

She sank slowly into the chair opposite him, chin angled to argue.

"You're right," he said, rough voice pitched low. "I passed you off to Harry knowing I'd make you bookkeeper once I took over this place."

She pressed her lips together to keep from cursing him again.

"I knew if I got you the job behind the bar, you'd trust me."

Her laugh was devoid of any humor, she repeated, "Trust you."

"Or at least you'd owe me."

"You threatened to cut my pay," she said. "I had no choice."

"Your choice was running out on Ben."

She spread her arms, "And this, what was this."

"Saving, Ms. Byrne."

"You can't believe that."

"You've worked unmolested for over a month now," he replied. Neither acknowledged their kiss against Arthur's office wall, it burned between them like live wire. He continued, grating, "That's more than you can say for your last job."

"You manipulated me."

"Would you rather I blacken your eye," he demanded, temper finally spent.

"I never should have come to you," she shook her head. "I never should have listened-"

"It's too late for any of that."

She met his gaze, a smile ghosting her lips, "Is it."

"You intend to leave," he said, eyes narrowing a fraction. "To break your contract with the Garrison, your contract with me."

"I could disappear," she said, voice softening. "You'd never see me again."

"Don't forget who came running to who."

"A mistake."

"A choice," he corrected, icily.

"Easily mended."

"You'll regret running out on me," he warned.

"On you," she said, expression dissolving. "Or this job."

"What's the difference, Mary."

She felt his slight, despite her hardened defenses. His deception had served the Peaky Blinders, not himself. She raised herself out of her chair, expression schooled placid, "Will you be wanting more whiskey, Mr. Shelby."

He studied her, then, "Nothing for now."

She held his gaze as she bobbed a mocking curtsey, he released a hissed curse at her insolence, "Get out of my sight."

She scraped up the paperwork she'd thrown between them and left him alone with his cigarettes, temper riled to red.

* * *

Half a week later she was behind the bar at the Garrison, taking careful inventory of their whiskey supply. Arthur came through the door, cap in hand, calling her name. She turned, brow lifted.

"Tommy wants you."

She exchanged a brief glance with Harry, offering a practiced shrug, "Can't imagine this will take long."

He waved her off, disinterested in telling her to mind the time with a Shelby present. Arthur draped her coat over her shoulders, waiting as she pressed both arms through the sleeves and gathered her purse.

"What's this about."

His expression was unreadable, she knew immediately it wasn't business Tommy was after.

"Arthur-"

"It's between you and Tommy," he cut her off, hands lifted. "I've told you before, I won't get in the middle of it."

She conceded, loyalty wouldn't allow him to say anything further. They made the short walk to the Shelby office in mostly quiet, Arthur puffing smoke beside her. Tommy was at the head of the room, seated behind his cluttered desk. Stripped of his overcoat, the collar of his shirt slightly askew, revealing pale skin and the beginnings of dark chest hair. Arthur shut the door firmly behind her, the silence was absolute. She maintained her coat, as though he'd adhere to her sense of time. His expression was cut from stone, she was reminded, again and again, when she saw him this way, how he'd come to claim a slowly growing empire.

"Whiskey."

"No," she replied. "I'm back to work after this."

"Take it anyway," he said, barely keeping the snap out of his voice. He dropped the over full glass in front of her, draining his own.

"Why did you need to see me."

He produced a piece of paper, depositing it neatly beside her glass of whiskey. She stared at him, half disbelieving, half unsurprised. It was her ticket to London, purchased barely a day ago.

"Where did you get this."

"What did I tell you about running out on me."

She tried again, voice firming, an ill fated attempt to siphon some power into her own corner, "Where did you-"

"What did I tell you," he roared, both hands slammed to his desk top, rattling the decanter, sloshing whiskey free of her glass.

"I would regret it," she replied evenly, chin tilted, aiming for unmoved in the face of his absolute fury. It was the first time she could recall him raising his voice, a man deeply accustomed to only having to ask once.

"Jesus," he shot both hands through his hair. "You're fucking incredible-"

"I've told you before, Mr. Shelby," she said, careful to keep her tone neutral. "You have no say in where I go, or what I do."

"I'm your employer-"

"Yes," she offered a singular bob of her head. "When I'm on the clock I answer to you."

"On the clock," he mimed, voice slipping another octave, dangerously close to a growl.

"And when I'm not at the Garrison, or in your office, or anywhere you might conduct business, I-"

"That's the trick, Ms. Byrne," he interrupted, eyes feral. "I conduct business in a great many places. There isn't a street corner for one hundred miles you'll find untouched by my many business dealings."

"Your business, Mr. Shelby," she affirmed. "Not mine."

"For as long as you work for me, you are my business."

She stiffened at this, the first sign of a temper.

"Ada's enough of a handful as is it," he continued. "I don't need to be worried about you running out every chance you get."

"I'm a grown woman, if I see fit to buy a train ticket every day for the next year-"

"If I so much as find out you've looked at the ticket booth," he snarled. "I'll suspend your pay a month."

Outrage lit her features, "You'd see me hungry, or on the street, just to serve your foolish pride."

"Pride has no place in this business," he shook his head, dismissive. "It's about power."

"Power over everyone around you," she returned, outraged. "Your family, Harry, your employees-"

"I told you, Mary, it's business."

"It won't stand."

His smirk was humorless, "I'm not a man who likes to repeat myself, and I've done it twice now."

"How many times before I'm more trouble than I'm worth."

He ignored her, continuing, "You were lucky, this time you were found out before I had to expend time and men trying to track you down."

She felt slightly faint at this, the realization he had no intention of letting her go, fight or not.

"Any more tickets," he said, proffering her stolen stub between them. "Or talk of leaving, and there will be consequences."

"What exactly are you threatening."

"I'll take you over my knee," he replied, voice rough as he stamped out his cigarette, blue eyes simmering.

Her cheeks were instantly red, "I'm not a child you can discipline."

"If you continue to act like one, then that's how I'll treat you," he returned. "And that's no threat, Mary. It's a promise."

"Are you finished," she demanded, sick with looking at him, her choices closing in around her.

"Go," he dismissed her, hand extended towards the exit. She turned on her heel, slamming the door behind her. Arthur was waiting, barely swallowing a smirk.

"You listened," she spat, embarrassed all over again by the thought of Tommy's threat.

"Hard not to," he replied, finger wiggling one ear. "My brother has a healthy set of lungs."

"I'll walk myself," she said, brushing past him.

"That's fine," he said, following suit. "You won't even notice I'm here."

She stopped short, "And you're to walk me home when my shift is done, aren't you."

He shook his head, "Not me."

She felt suddenly weary, defeated, "Who, then."

"Henry drew short straw."

She shook her head, resigned, "Fine."

Arthur opened the door, the daytime had turned dreary, the sun barely poking through a screen on clouds. He kept his promise, walking some feet behind, the illusion of invisible.


	4. Chapter 4

The remainder of the afternoon passed quickly, and before she knew it, her shift was over. Henry was loitering outside, chatting absently with the men who'd started drinking. He was barely a year older than her, still wet behind the ears, a far cry from the other Blinders she'd encountered.

When she appeared, hat and coat in hand, he offered a genial smile, "Ready, Ms. Byrne."

She purposefully bypassed him, disinterested in being held hostage by Tommy Shelby's antics. She fully intended to walk home, if Henry chose to follow, it would be no business of hers.

"I'll see you in the morning, Mary."

She lifted a hand to Harry, yanking her hat onto her head and stepped out into the cold evening. Henry was close behind, hands dug into his pockets, contrite. When he turned, surveying either side of the street, the razors at the tip of his cap caught the light, flashing obscenely.

"It's too late to catch a train," she said, offhandedly, as though speaking to no one at all. "What exactly does Mr. Shelby think I intend to do."

"It's to keep you safe, Miss."

"Is that what Thomas told you," she said, unconvinced, knowing full well his only goal was teaching her a lesson.

He offered a nod, "Safe."

She offered a derisive snort, dismissing him, "The safest I could be is as far away from Birmingham, and every Shelby in it, as possible."

"Where would you go."

She paused, searching his expression for a carefully laid trap, but saw nothing but guileless interest.

"If you could go anywhere in the world," he pressed. "Where would it be."

"Somewhere warm," she quipped, yanking her coat tighter around her body.

"Australia."

She tipped her face upward, "What."

"That's where I'd go," he explained easily. "Australia."

"Is it warm."

"With sand beaches," he nodded.

"Sand beaches," she repeated.

After a long pause, Henry cleared his throat, offering, "He means well, Ms. Byrne."

"Mary," she corrected.

Henry bobbed his head, she saw a flush scale his cheeks, "Mary."

"How did Tommy recruit you to the Blinders."

"Offered me money," Henry said. "Couldn't say no, not to what he offered."

"Blackmail," Mary ventured.

"He gave me what I needed to feed my mother and sisters," he said. "I'm in Mr. Shelby's debt."

Mary bit her tongue, faced with a very different side of Tommy's recruiting. Hard pressed to deny he'd likely saved Henry's family from starvation. They passed the rest of their walk in an easy quiet.

"Will you be here to take me to work in the morning."

"I can," he said. "That is, if you want me to."

"I'd prefer no escort," she replied.

He shook his head, "I don't think Mr. Shelby would allow it."

"Fine," she snapped, frustrated, embarrassed to have no one but sweet Henry to unleash it on. "Until tomorrow, then."

He tipped his hat, smiling, pleased, "Tomorrow, Mary."

* * *

As promised, Henry was waiting on her stoop at a quarter to eight. He walked her to work, passing Arthur along the way, surely on his way home from the bar from the smell of him. After delivering Mary safely to the Garrison, and Harry's watchful eye, Henry departed.

"I'll be back this afternoon."

Mary offered no reply, removing her hat and coat, diving into her work. It was unusually quiet, Mary waited until nearly lunchtime to come into the main room. Harry was behind the bar, polishing glasses, bar mop draped over one shoulder.

"How're the books treating you, Mary."

"Fine," she replied, rubbing the back of her neck, sore from being bent over her desk all morning. At his offer of lunch she declined, choosing instead to retreat to her office for the duration of the afternoon. Henry arrived to see her home, the sky was slate gray above them, threatening rain.

"What did Thomas have you do today, Henry," Mary asked. "Besides walk me back and forth across Birmingham."

"Errands," he replied, vague enough to pique her interest.

"What kind-"

When they turned the final corner to her flat, she stopped dead in her tracks, blinking against what she saw before her. Her front door was ajar, two men halfway onto the street with her kitchen table held between them.

"They're stealing my-"

Henry caught her arm, "Nobody's stealing anything, Mary."

She shook him off, accusing, "If I'm not being robbed, then what _is_ happening, Henry."

He had the good sense to look embarrassed, "I thought Mr. Shelby told you."

"Told me what," she demanded.

"You're moving."

"Moving," she repeated faintly, disbelief and fury coalescing. "Where is he, where is Thomas fucking Shelby."

She spun on her heel, with every intention of wringing his neck. When Henry followed, protest on his lips she turned, snatching up the collar of his jacket and forcing him back a step, "Stop following me, Henry."

"Mary-"

"Enough," she said, giving him an earnest shove. "Don't follow me."

She half ran the rest of the way, pushing into building, past two Blinders, and up the stairs to her small flat. Tommy was just inside, hands dug into the pockets of his overcoat. She faced him squarely, fury making her bold, "What the fuck do you think you're doing."

He was equal parts insolent and unmoved, cigarette smoking between his lips.

"You're moving."

"Like hell-"

He shook his head, "There's nothing to discuss."

"This is my home-"

"It's not safe," he said simply.

"Says you," she spat.

"Your employer," he returned. "Or did you forget your place in all of this."

"You're not king of the world, Thomas Shelby," she rallied, hands to tight fists at her sides, a familiar argument on her lips. "You're not king of Birmingham either."

"No, not yet," he smirked. "But I'll be damned if I'm not king of what's mine."

She glared at him, "This is about the train ticket."

At the mention of her attempted escape his scowl dissolved, expression taking on the stone like hardness she'd come to know well. He shored himself against her, emotions compartmentalized or erased, she wasn't willing to wager. He'd been more hurt by her attempt at freedom than he cared to let on.

"It's about safety," he replied grimly, stamping out his cigarette and motioning towards the door. "Alfie's due out of prison any day, I'm not taking any chances leaving you on this side of town."

She paused at this, brow briefly furrowed, "Alfie's being released, and you didn't see fit to tell me-"

"I'll see you home," he interrupted, disinterested in a lecture.

"Home," she repeated, incredulous. "I am home."

He shook his head, "Not any more."

Refusing to be forced, too proud for that, she lifted her chin and marched out onto the sidewalk. She recognized the men hauling her belongings, identical capped heads bobbing between the street and her front door. Tommy led her back the way she'd come, circling closer and closer to his own home, and office. The flats were larger, though not by much, and the rent higher than what she was used to paying.

"I can't afford to live on these streets," she said.

"I'll give you a raise."

"I don't want a raise-"

"Then stop complaining."

She stepped in front of him, forcing him to a stop, "Why are you doing this," she demanded. "Without asking, without-"

"How many times do I have to say the same thing," he ground out. "You're safer living down here."

"Safer," she challenged. "Or easier to keep tabs on."

His smirk was tight, "Both."

She planted both hands to the front of his overcoat and shoved, much like she'd done to Henry, who had beat a hasty retreat. Tommy barely budged, firmly planted, looming over her like a bad dream.

"That's enough, Mary," he said, a warning hung in his electric blue eyes.

"Is it enough, Thomas," she demanded, undeterred. "You've forced me to take work I don't want, you've taken my home away from me, you-"

"You came looking for me when Ben put his hands on you," he interrupted, angling closer.

"You're right about one thing, I came to you for help," she returned. "But I never asked for all of this," she spread her arms. "You broke into my house to get your hands on that ticket, you've got your gang following me around town, and now-"

"And now maybe you're beginning to understand who you're dealing with," he snarled.

She angled her chin, far from pacified, tired of manipulation.

"You chose the Peaky Blinders," Tommy continued. "Knowing full well what we were about. So it's time to stop fucking fighting me, and learn your place around here."

"And where's that, Thomas."

His smirk was mean, "You'll find, it's wherever I want you to be."

She slapped him, before she could reconsider the motion, hard enough to sting. He went perfectly still, as though transmuted to stone. Her mouth opened, then snapped shut, thinking better of offering any kind of excuse. She waited for an explosive retaliation, accustomed to the violence he doled out when met with opposition.

When he spoke his voice was savage, barely controlled, "Go to Polly, Mary."

She hesitated, prepared to demand the keys to her new home, the location of her belongings, forgiveness if it would erase the wild look from his eyes.

"To Polly," he commanded. "Before I have a mind to teach you a lesson."

She fled, heels striking the cobblestones, disinterested in testing his patience any further.

Polly was smoking a black cigarette, hair unraveling around her shoulders when Mary arrived, out of breath, cheeks flushed.

She stood, panicked, "What's happened."

Mary lifted both hands, regretting having startled the other woman, "It's nothing, it's Thomas."

"What's he done now," Polly demanded, resigned to her nephew's antics.

"He's moved me out of my flat."

Her brow lifted, "Moved you out."

"He's taken all of my things," Mary said, hat wrung in her hands. "He plans to set me up somewhere closer, we argued about it, I slapped him-"

Polly startled and then laughed, "You slapped Tommy Shelby?"

Mary paused, then shook her head, "I doubt Thomas will be laughing about it any time soon."

Polly yanked her coat off the hook on the wall, "We'll make him see reason."

Mary perked up, "About my flat."

Polly shook her head, "I'm not getting in the middle of that," hooking her arm through Mary's she led her out the door. "But I'd wager if we get the boys at the Garrison on our side, Tommy will have to forgive you."

"And how do you intend to do that."

Polly led her down the street, the lights from the Garrison visible as they rounded the corner, "Whiskey, my love."

Within a half hour, Polly had the entirety of the bar clutching their sides, Mary had transformed into the perfect foil to Tommy's rougher edges, a hero to his antihero, the last woman left standing against his historic temper.

"Right in the middle of the street," Polly cried, whiskey lifted. "She hauled off and slapped him."

Arthur roared, clapping Mary's shoulder, "You're lucky to be walking straight."

John was less than impressed, "Tom wouldn't hit a woman."

"No," they turned at the sound of Tommy at their back. "I wouldn't, John boy. But tempt me long enough, and I just might take a belt to her ass."

The bar erupted all over again, the seriousness of her slapping Thomas Shelby tumbled and gone amid the revelry. She was thankful, for Polly and whiskey, if nothing else that night. Tommy picked up a fresh glass and emptied the nearest bottle of whiskey into it. Mary averted her eyes when he looked up to seek her gaze.

"Mary."

An unholy quiet lit the tables around them.

"Thomas."

He reached into his pocket, producing a brass key and extending it, "To your new home."

Mary reached out, allowing Tommy to drop the key into her upturned palm.

"First months rent has been taken care of."

The din started up around them, Polly leading the chase, "The woman boxes your ears, and gets free room and board out of it."

"You've had your fun, Poll," Tommy said, eyes on Mary. "And she's learned her lesson."

Tommy lifted his glass, his cheers met with Polly, Arthur, and John respectively. Mary was slower to raise her glass, expression unreadable.

"I told you he's going soft," Arthur ribbed, brow wagging.

"No," Polly shook her head, still smirking. "Your brother's finally met his match."

Mary stayed quiet, Arthur's arm roped her shoulders, "Sweet Mary," he said, pulling her into his chest beneath Tommy's watchful stare. "Were you born to rule Birmingham."

"No," she said, cheeks pink with whiskey, some of her confidence restored. "No more than Thomas Shelby."

Arthur slapped the table, "She's sweet on you, brother."

Tommy motioned her to stand, "You've had enough, I'll get you home."

Arthur's grip transferred to her waist, lifting her easily up and out of her chair. She turned, protest on her lips, but John had already risen to replace her coat.

"John-"

He patted her cheek, "Don't worry, I don't think he's wearing a belt."

The crowd roared all over again, Tommy ignored the disruption, chin hitched towards the door, "Come on, trouble."

She walked on unsteady feet, the whiskey gone straight to her head. Tommy's fingertips brushed her elbow, an attempt at offering a steady hand. She pushed him off, ignoring his scowl. The nighttime air was damp, the windows slick with fog. Tommy lit a cigarette, holding it to her lips. She parted them slightly, accepting it, the backs of his fingers against her skin felt electric.

He lit one for himself, pulling deeply, releasing smoke, "You're lucky."

She counted the reasons in her head, curiosity getting the better of her, "Why do you say that."

"Polly."

Mary's smile was lopsided, rueful, "She's good to me."

"She saved you tonight."

She chanced a look at him, profile in sharp relief against the street lamps. His cheekbones looked carved from stone, eyes unnaturally blue.

"Getting the boys on your side."

She shook her head, "There are no sides."

"Aren't there," he said, smirking.

"Polly didn't want you to stay angry," Mary shrugged. "She was only trying to help."

"Help you, you mean."

She gave up arguing with him, they both knew he was right. Polly's intervention had been at his expense, unquestioningly.

"When will Alfie be free."

"Day after tomorrow, most likely."

"What about the debts," she pressed. "The charges against him."

Tommy shook his head, "He won't last long."

She shivered at this, running both hands along her arms. Solomons' release, however long, posed a threat. She hoped he never came into the means to make her regret the choices she'd made in his absence.

"You'll like your flat."

Tommy's voice pulled her back to the present.

"Poll picked it out," he added. She jolted, expression registering surprise and disappointment. His smirk was evident, "She didn't mention it."

"No," Mary said, some of the wind yanked from her sails. "No, she didn't."

"Following orders," Tommy said, accustomed to being the scapegoat. "Nothing personal."

"I'll remember to thank her," she said, without a trace of irony.

Tommy flicked his cigarette into the street, "We look out for one another."

"We," repeated, surprised in spite of herself.

"You work for me," he said. "You're one of us."

Before she could say any more, he stopped, eyes on the building to their right, "This is it."

She turned, it was a two story building, small but neat, the windows tall on both floors to let in the sun.

"It's beautiful."

When he made no reply, she turned, surprised to find him already halfway down the street. She pressed the key to the lock, opening the door. On a surprising whim, she called out, "Thank you," to his retreating form.


	5. Chapter 5

Henry walked her to work the following morning, and the morning after that. After two weeks, he arrived with flowers, grinning as he wished her good morning. She walked beside him, flowers in hand, continually surprised by his gentility in spite of his occupation. Twice now she'd seen Henry at the Garrison roughed up, blood beneath his fingernails, knuckles shredded behind gauze. The Blinder and her suitor were one in the same, even if they appeared worlds apart.

Saturday was particularly dreary. When Henry arrived as escort, he was fidgeting, red at the sight of her. They walked in quiet to the doors of the Garrison, it was then that he asked if she'd see a film at the picture show.

She offered him a smile, "I finish at six."

"I'll pick you up here, then."

She nodded, disappearing inside. Harry motioned towards the gallery when she arrived behind the bar. She gathered whiskey and glasses, knocking on the door before stepping inside.

"Mary."

"Harry said you were waiting on whiskey."

"Waiting on you," he corrected easily. She poured his whiskey as he elaborated. "I'm expecting two men," he said. "In ten minutes serve us a round of drinks."

She bobbed her head, keeping her expression vapid. Understanding he trusted her to interrupt, and possibly overhear a piece of their conversation, over Harry. His request was proof that she'd regained a fraction of trust. Mary knew she should be grateful for this, coming from the man who employed her, but her fury over being ejected from her flat hadn't fully abated.

"You're quiet," he commented, aiming for unmoved, but his eyes betrayed a hint of impatience.

"What would you prefer, Mr. Shelby," she demurred.

He shook his head, releasing a noise of frustration, "That mouth."

"It's not for sale."

He stopped short, staring up at her, taken aback by her rare vulgarity, her continued boldness in the face of his history with violence. He produced a fresh cigarette, letting the silence stretch between them. Finally, "You're to go straight home after work, and stay there."

"Alfie isn't out for another day."

"Straight home," he returned, in no mood to argue. She bit back the question on her lips, accepting his instruction with no further comment.

"The drinks," he said, dismissing her, before he made his mind up to say anything further. "Ten minutes."

She eyed the clock on the wall, "Nine."

"Go," he commanded, fully fed up, eyes narrowed. When she knocked on the gallery door exactly nine minutes later, he found he'd been looking forward to it. Annoyed with himself, more than her ability to get a reaction out of him, he beckoned her in. As requested, she laid drinks between him and the two men angling for business. They looked her over, appreciative, surprised such a woman would be working in a place like the Garrison.

"Anything else, Mr. Shelby."

He shook his head, waving her off. The door shut with a purr at her back, he picked up his refreshed glass, toasting, trying to scrub her face from his mind's eye.

* * *

When Tommy finished his business, Harry was the sole occupant of the bar back.

"Tom."

"Closing time," he commented, refusing the urge to search the rest of the building for any sign of Mary.

"Not soon enough," Harry shook his head, worn out.

"No help tonight."

"Mary left a little while ago," he replied, searching Tommy's expression. "Did you need her."

He waved him off, "No, I don't need anything, Harry."

A lie, even as he spoke the words, he knew it to be an untruth. He walked home, the streets were quiet, his feet striking cobblestone was the only sound. John's lights were doused, Polly was alone when he arrived.

"Early night," Polly said at the sight of him. She was smoking at the kitchen table, enjoying the peace, having tucked Ada safely home across town some hours ago. She continued to be the only Shelby who didn't see fit to participate in Tommy's enterprise.

He kept his overcoat on, hat pulled low over his brow, "Where's Mary."

Polly hesitated, briefly, but long enough to snag his attention, "Out for the night."

"I can see that," Tommy replied, watching her. "Where is she."

"Tommy-"

"Are you protecting her."

Polly straightened, "Does she need protecting."

He growled something unintelligible in response, then, "Where."

"Henry took her to the picture show."

He was out the door again, ignoring Polly's protests at his back. His fist met Arthur's door as he shouted his name. Arthur appeared, disheveled, hair falling over his forehead, "What's wrong-"

"Business," Tommy snapped, waiting as his brother donned his cap and overcoat.

* * *

The movie was halfway through, in that span of time Mary had watched Henry's hand travel a slow half moon to cover hers. His palm was warm overtop her hand, a reassurance more than a come on. She heard a low commotion outside, exchanging a frown with Henry. Before either of them could comment, the doors behind them cracked open, Tommy was framed in the doorway. She slunk lower in her seat, dread bottoming out her stomach. Henry ducked his head towards her, panicked, "He's here for us."

"Go, Henry," she said, as Tommy's voice charged the room, commanding everyone to clear out.

"Mary-"

"Go, if you can," she urged him, certain of one thing at least, Tommy would prioritize catching her, over nabbing Henry. He squirreled past, leaving her to her own devices. The other occupants filed out, murmuring, looking over their shoulders to spot Tommy's prey.

It was only when Mary heard Tommy call Arthur's name that she straightened in her seat. She watched Henry caught up by Arthur's hand at the back of his coat, forcibly removed from the theater and out of sight. The line of her shoulders depressed, defeat thinning the line of her mouth. She should have known Tommy wouldn't come alone.

He walked to the front of the theatre, leaving four rows between them, lighting a cigarette and watching her over the glow, "When you served me a drink at the Garrison, what did I tell you."

She stayed in her seat, hands to either arm rest, holding his stare, "To stay home tonight."

He exhaled smoke, "You're living at the picture show now."

"It was one movie," she reasoned.

His crystalline eyes were emotionless, the same shade as fresh ice and equally cutting, she felt the threat of Tommy Shelby like a hand at her throat, "You've made a habit of ignoring every fucking thing I tell you."

"I just wanted a night out," she said. "I thought you'd prefer if I was out with one of yours."

A muscle jumped to life along his jaw, she knew instantly she'd made a mistake. Tommy motioned her out of her seat, "We're leaving."

She shrugged her coat back onto her shoulders, standing to meet him at the end of the row. Arthur was waiting for them outside, hair swept over his forehead, sweating lightly despite the chill.

Mary faced him squarely, "Did you hurt him?"

"Go home, Arthur."

She snatched up Arthur's arm before he could step aside, "Arthur, please, tell me you-"

"Gave him a scare, that's all," he shook her off, mindful of Tommy watching the exchange.

"Next time it'll be more than that," Tommy promised quietly.

"He didn't mean any harm-"

"Go on, Mary," Arthur said, voice gruff. "Tommy will get you home."

He left them standing outside the cinema, collar turned up under his chin to fight off the wind. Mary watched him go, avoiding Tommy's gaze for as long as possible. When she did finally meet his gaze, she made sure to speak first, "Why did you tell me to stay in tonight."

"Told Henry the same."

"Why."

He looked at her, meaningfully, "I told you both to stay in tonight."

She made a face, understanding he'd purposefully pitted them against his will. They'd been bested on both counts, neither obeying his instructions. Her gaze flickered to his, "He disobeyed you to see me."

"He did."

She was quiet, then, "You had Arthur beat a boy for taking me to the picture show."

Her laughter surprised them both, she was nearly split in half with it. Out-loud it was outlandish, so dissimilar from the life she'd led only a year before, there was nothing to do but laugh. Tommy watched her, smoking in silence. Grief hit her, unbidden and unwanted, laughter quickly evaporated. When she finally raised her head, he saw tears in her eyes.

"Are you done," he said. 

She wiped the tears from her cheeks, composure slowly restored, "Take me home, Mr. Shelby."

They walked in silence, followed by a haze of smoke. The nighttime was cool and quiet, when they reached her doorstep, not a block from his own or the Shelby office, she paused on the stoop of her new flat.

"What would you do if I asked you to let me go."

He considered her question, then shook his head, "You know Shelby secrets."

Her smile was grim, "I know the most coveted secret of all."

His expression was wary, electric eyes narrowing, "What's that."

She tapped a finger to his chest, "Thomas Shelby's heart still beats."

For all of his high handedness, his temper, his ruthless resolve to have his way, he'd sheltered her from Solomons' men, employing her when other men wouldn't have looked twice, for fear of retaliation. And despite her best efforts, she wouldn't soon forget it. Her gratitude, brief as it was, transformed her expression, he felt it like a punch to his gut. He'd have handed over his life for the promise of another look at her face, softened and vulnerable.

He watched her turn away, unlocking the door and disappearing inside without another word. He stayed in the street, smoking his cigarette to nothing, watching her ghostly silhouette behind curtained windows. Allowing the realization that she had the power to utterly destroy him sink in.


	6. Chapter 6

A brawl had been brewing for the better part of the last hour. When it boiled over, it would be the third fight that week. Tommy was along the bar, cigarettes in hand, watching the temperature in the Garrison slowly rise. Arthur was beside him, muttering into his whiskey, wondering why they couldn't just instigate an argument and get on with it.

When Mary appeared at the back of the room, wearing her hat and coat, Tommy's attention wavered. As always, she wore muted colors, livening the gold in her hair and the lily of her skin. He'd noticed the day before, she'd worn earrings to work. They were maybe an inch long, shaped like twin mighty silver tears. Nearly invisible by midday when her hair began to loosen around her ears. Tommy was hard pressed to deny the extra effort may have been for Henry, though he'd like to think otherwise. Mary continued maneuvering between tables, head down, avoiding him, or any unwanted attention, he wasn't willing to bet.

Within those few seconds of Tommy's diverted attention, violence erupted. Two men lunged from one another, while two more toppled a table to begin swinging. Arthur released a blistering curse, already rolling up his sleeves. Tommy shouted Mary's name, but it was swallowed up by the rising commotion. He crossed the room, shoving men aside in his effort to reach her. He wasn't far when a man to her right took a punch to the gut, stumbling backwards, notched elbow catching Mary in the mouth.

"Shit-"

Tommy surged forward, hooking her waist to yank her up and out of further harm's way. He heard Arthur close behind, driving between the two men, shouting. Her hands found his forearm, neck craning to catch his eye.

"Tommy-"

He pulled her a safe distance from the fight before releasing his hold on her. She adjusted her hat, hands shaking. He touched her mouth with his thumb, watching her wince, "Are you alright."

"I'm fine," she replied, easily, only her dark eyes betraying a hint of fear.

"I'll get you home."

On cue Arthur shouted his name, the fighting hadn't yet calmed down. John appeared at his side, "Come on, Tom, they won't bloody listen to reason."

Mary offered a wry smile, "Then they'll certainly listen to you."

Tommy's mouth twisted against a smirk, "I'm coming, John."

"I'm fine," she said, halfway to believing it herself.

"I'll walk her, Mr. Shelby."

They turned in unison, Henry was beside them, hat between his hands. She saw him waver at the prospect, but Arthur shouted his name again, forcing his hand.

"Straight home," he instructed, levelling Henry with a singular look. 

Henry nodded his understanding, hand to Mary's elbow, leading her out of the Garrison. They walked the uneven cobbled streets shoulder to shoulder, she was grateful for the contact, mouth aching, weary of violence.

"As soon as you get home, you'll want to try a compress," Henry said. "It's what Polly has us do any time we get nicked in the face."

She nodded absently, wanting nothing more than to simply crawl into bed and sleep. The Garrison had turned ugly in the past few days, men who drank comfortably together had turned into bitter enemies. All over wages at the BSA factory.

"Mary," Henry stopped walking to pick up her hands in his. "Is there nowhere else you can work."

Surprised, she searched his face, "Henry-"

"This isn't the job for you," he shook his head. "No woman should-"

"It's all I have," she interrupted, resigned. Footsteps rounding the nearest corner drew their attention, Tommy appeared, cigarette in hand. His eyes narrowed at the sight of them, hands linked, in the middle of the street.

"Tommy-"

Henry broke in, "We're just walking, Mr. Shelby."

Tommy's silence was damning. Henry's grip disappeared, she watched his quick retreat, past Tommy and around the bend in the road. Tommy was quiet a while, lighting a fresh cigarette, face hidden beneath the slide of his cap. She waited, watching the practiced motion.

When he lifted his head, his expression had softened a fraction, "I'll see you home, Mary."

She nodded, adjusting her purse as he made his way towards her. He lifted a hand to the small of her back, a small comfort as they began to walk.

"I've never seen so much fighting in my life," she said.

Tommy's smile was wan, "Count yourself lucky."

"How many more nights like this can the Garrison stand," she said.

Tommy released a pent up breath, "I imagine a few more, Mary."

She shook her head, "Those men-"

"They're desperate," Tommy intercepted. "Afraid their families will starve."

"It's a terrible thing," she said softly. "To turn against one's neighbor."

Tommy offered no reply, well versed in desperation. Shame nipping his heels at the knowledge that he'd brought brutality to her life, in bloody color.

"You didn't have to chase off Henry," she said after a lengthy quiet. "He's only doing what you asked."

"Is he," Tommy smirked.

"Walking me home," she affirmed.

"I never told him anything about putting his hands on you."

She made a noise of discontent, "If his hands were anywhere I didn't want them, I wouldn't need you to tell him."

"You'd tell him yourself," Tommy supplied.

"Yes."

"And my hands."

She paused at this, chancing a look upward, he was staring straight ahead, expression unreadable in profile.

"What about them."

"Would you tell me if I put them somewhere unwanted," he said.

"You're a man, Mr. Shelby," she said, taking the cigarette from his mouth to put it between her lips, inhaling, enjoying the head rush. "Not a god."

He was snared between annoyed and amused, "I take that as a yes, then."

"Yes," she affirmed, meeting his gaze, unflinching. "Undoubtedly, yes."

They walked in silence, passing the cigarette between them until they reached her door. She produced keys, pausing to look up at him, "Why have Henry walk me, if you'd rather do it yourself."

He discarded the cigarette stub, quiet. When she opened her front door, he offered, "If you'd rather I walk you myself, when not ask."

"I'd rather not be walked at all," she replied tiredly.

He reached out, taking her face carefully between his hands, tilting it to get a better look at her lip, "Your first fight, Ms. Byrne."

"I suppose it was."

"No more fighting," he said, hooking her gaze. "I promise."

"How can you-"

"Trust me," he interrupted, releasing her. She watched him go, shoulders squared against the cold, cigarette sending smoke curling up and over his head.

* * *

The following day, Mary wasn't expected at the Garrison. Thankful for the quiet, Mary stayed inside, sipping tea and applying Polly's suggested compress to her split lip. That evening, Henry visited with flowers to replace the last bouquet, blushing nearly as red as he had the first time. They sat for two hours, listening to the rain, skirting the topic of the Blinders, talking mostly of family. It was nearing ten o'clock when they were interrupted by a knock at her front door.

Henry's gaze flickered briefly to the clock, "It's late."

"It's probably Polly," she said. She undid the bolt to pull the door partially open, surprised at the sight of Tommy. He was the drunkest she'd seen him, pale eyes shot red, cheeks wan. 

"What are you doing here."

"Can I come in."

"No."

She winced, wishing she could take back her quick refusal.

"No," Tommy repeated, brow lifted.

"I have company," she said, vaguely. "I'll come to your office first thing-"

His boot appeared between the door and the frame when she moved to shut him out. Sober he was capable of being impossible, drunk he erred belligerent.

"This isn't a business call," he said. "It's social."

"Then it can wait."

"Who's inside, Mary."

"I told you," she said, both palms wedged against the door. "I have company.

"Who," Tommy demanded, voice pitched to growl.

She rolled her eyes, "Winston Churchill."

He shoved the door open, forcing her back a step. He pressed past her, up the stairs and into her small parlor. Henry was sitting at the table, tea freshly poured and steaming. He went pale at the sight of Tommy, "Mr. Shelby."

Tommy pulled off his wet hat, expression unreadable as he stared between the tea and flowers, "Henry."

Mary was at his elbow, hands to his arm, "This can wait until tomorrow, Tommy."

He shook her off, scraping another chair to the table and sitting down, "I think I'll stay awhile."

Henry pulled at the collar of his shirt, starting to look nervous. Mary glared openly, slapping down another cup and pouring him tea. 

"Whiskey, Mary."

She opened her mouth to refuse him, but thought better of it. She pulled the bottle from the cabinet, watching as he added a heavy splash to his cup. He extended the bottle to Henry who mutely declined. Mary moved the bottle out of reach before retaking her seat, annoyed to find Tommy had positioned himself squarely between them. When his electric eyes settled on her, unmoving, she made a point of ignoring him. The silence was punctuated occasionally by Henry's guileless questions, aimed mostly at Tommy, who offered grunting responses, attention never waving from Mary.

A half hour passed before Henry rose to take his leave.

"Don't go," Mary said, only half meaning it, tired of the stifling tension in the room.

Henry's smile was genial, "It's alright, Mary, I'm sure Mr. Shelby's here with business to discuss."

"No," Tommy said, shaking his head, expression predatory. "No business, Henry."

Henry stared between them, understanding implicitly what Tommy meant to say. His time had come to bow out gracefully, or not. Regardless of what Henry felt for Mary, both men knew there was only one safe option. To throw his hat into the ring with Tommy, would mean an uncertain future, for himself, and more importantly his family. Henry wasn't willing to take that risk. He looked at Mary as he replaced his cap, tipping it, signaling his goodbye.

"You'll come back for tea," she said, an attempt at softening Tommy's rude dismissal.

He cleared his throat, "I don't think so, Ms. Byrne."

Her eyes narrowed a fraction as she looked between the two men, annoyed Tommy had outplayed her. She resented the power struggle playing out in her kitchen. Whether she wanted Henry or not, Tommy's interference had cost her yet another choice.

Refusing to let her annoyance show, she rose to her feet, planting a gentle kiss to Henry's cheek, "Thank you, Henry, for everything."

"Good night, Henry."

Tommy's dismissal jerked him into motion, he turned on his heel and disappeared out the front door. Mary watched him go, counting to a steady ten, a clumsy attempt to control her temper. She turned back to the table, clearing their assorted mugs and the kettle.

"Get me a glass," he instructed.

The tail of his sentence blurred, she faced him squarely, "How much whiskey have you had tonight, Thomas."

"Not enough," he returned, eyes on her mouth. "I still want you."

Her cheeks ripened, his candid admission caught her by surprise.

"But I'm willing to wait," he said, a rough reassurance.

"Since when are you a patient man."

"I've had to be," he replied. "For you."

Before she could say any more he stood, reaching for one of her crystal cut glasses, a housewarming gift from John and Arthur. She stepped into his way, shaking her head, "I don't like you drunk, Thomas, you're a bully."

"A bully," he repeated, hands clamping down on the counter top at either side of her waist, boxing her in. He caught a flash of fear in her dark eyes. "Frightened, Mary," he said, a question, a challenge. 

She refused an answer, chin notched a little higher. He pressed a fraction closer, palming her hip, fingers closing around a hank of her skirt. Before he could draw her any closer, she jerked her head forward. He barely avoided her headbutt, cursing liberally as he released her. She circled out of reach, damp palms pressed to the front of her skirt, shaking out the wrinkles his fingers had left.

He glared at her, eyes burning, "I should have taken John's advice and fucked you at the first sign of trouble-"

Her expression shuttered, panic lighting her eyes. The whiskey had made him rough, unaccountably ruthless, she'd grown accustomed to his moods, but this was something entirely different.

"Maybe you'd have learned to listen to me by now," he ground out, barely curbing the urge to shake the hell out of her.

She squared her shoulders, despite her racing pulse, "I want you to leave."

He pointed a warning finger at her, "You're through with Henry."

"No," she shook her head. "He's through with me."

Tommy removed a cigarette, mouth plugged against any answer.

She watched him, glaring, "You made certain of that tonight."

"Henry's not the boy for you, Mary."

"Why," she demanded. "Because Thomas Shelby says so."

He offered no reply, retaking his seat, whiskey finally catching up with him. Mary turned away from him, shaking her head, fully fed up. She left the room, determined to splash some water on her face and return prepared to throw him out. 

When she came back to the kitchen he'd fallen asleep, cigarette between his fingers, chin tucked to his chest. She paused, studying him for a moment, a man capable of savageness one moment, and utter stillness the next. Removing the cigarette from his hand, she touched his shoulder, "Tommy."

He murmured something unintelligible.

"Tommy," she tried again, louder this time. His eyes flickered open, blue and cold as ice. "I need to get you home."

"Be my home," he said quietly, voice hoarse with whiskey and sleeplessness.

"You have a home," she returned softly.

"There's nothing," he began to nod off again, words disjointed, "Mine."

She gave up the prospect of walking him down the street and home. Removing his overcoat, she eased him up and onto the couch. He reclined, long legs kicked out, hair falling over his forehead.

"Mary."

His grip found her wrist, surprisingly strong, given his disposition, "Stay with me."

She stiffened at his bold request, carefully prying her arm free. She pulled a blanket over his lower half, murmuring, "Sleep, Tommy."

Retiring to her own room, she bolted the door behind her without a second thought. In the morning, her couch was empty save the blanket she'd used to cover him. He'd scratched a time down on a slip of paper, left on her table. She studied the ragged lines of his penmanship, remembering the murmured requests he'd made the previous night.


	7. Chapter 7

The morning was blessedly sunny, taking the edge off of the usual chill. She bundled regardless, well versed in Birmingham's fickle weather. She wore gray from head to toe, broken up singularly by red lipstick Polly had gifted her. The color nearly concealed the split down her bottom lip. The street was empty when she stepped outside, it was the first morning without an escort. She felt vaguely liberated, equally annoyed at Tommy for his treatment of Henry the night before.

At the appointed time, she arrived at the Shelby's office. Tommy was standing over Polly's desk when she arrived. He paused, mid-sentence at the sight of her, eyes on her mouth. She ignored his staring, offering a mild greeting. His gaze lifted briefly to her eyes, before returning pointedly to her painted lips. She accepted a mug of tea from Polly, and disappeared into Tommy's office to wait as they concluded their conversation. The sight of him, eyes bloodshot and hollow, made her wonder how much of their evening he remembered.

There was whiskey on his desk, a still smoking cigarette balanced on the hip of a heavy ashtray. She picked it up, inhaling, waiting.

"Mary," He strode in, taking a seat across from her. "I need you in my office."

She was quiet, slowly accepting he had no intention of mentioning the previous night. He eyed the cigarette she'd discarded, the imprint of her lipstick looked like blood against the white paper.

"It's about the factory wages."

She tilted her head, interest piqued, "What about them."

"I may have a way of making some money for the men whose wages were slashed."

"Tell me," she said, impressed that he intended to make good on his promise to stop the fighting so soon.

"There's races this weekend," he said. "I intend to fix them."

She stared at him, repeating slowly, "Fix them."

"Yes," he nodded. "I have a horse, all I need-"

"Fixing the horse races isn't going to change what these men make in a year, Thomas," she interrupted, disappointment coloring her expression. "I thought when you meant to stop the fighting you were going to petition for higher wages, or-"

"You mistake me for a union organizer."

"Better that, then giving these men false hope."

"False hope," he repeated, eyes narrowing.

"One weekend of fixed races isn't a long term solution, Thomas."

"What would you have me do," he demanded. "Sit by and watch them tear each other apart."

"They're doing honest work, you can't-"

"They're doing honest work, and not seeing the wages for it," Tommy cut her off angrily.

"So you intend to make common criminals out of all of us."

"If that's what it takes to survive, then yes."

"I won't be any part of this," she said, shaking her head, pushing out of her chair. She was halfway to the door when he called her name. She stopped short, wheeling to face him, "What now."

"I haven't dismissed you yet."

She stared at him, disbelieving, the silence stretched between them, punctuated briefly by Tommy lighting a new cigarette.

"Dismissed me," she repeated, finally able to find her voice.

"You'll wait until I've told you to go."

"I'm not a dog, Mr. Shelby."

His surname on her lips felt like a vulgarity.

"You're worse," he returned, levelling her with a cool stare. "You're a woman who doesn't yet know her place."

"Fuck you-"

He pointed a warning finger, features transformed, fierce, "Careful."

She pressed her lips together, biting back any further retort. As quickly as his temper had flared, he was stone once more, blue eyes flattening, expression smoothed to carved ice. Half a minute later Arthur stepped into Tommy's office, gaze split between them, "What's happened."

"You can go, Ms. Byrne."

She turned, meeting Arthur's gaze, "Your brother thinks he's royalty."

Arthur screwed a finger in circles near his temples, "He's not right in the head, sweet Mary, you know that."

She pushed away from him and out the door, disinterested in teasing, fully fed by the antics of the Shelby boys.

* * *

He was sitting on her front stoop when she arrived home from the Garrison. Her first instinct was to turn back the way she'd come and find Polly, but she forced herself forward. He looked up at her approach, wearing an expression she hadn't seen before. When she sidestepped him, jamming the keys into the lock, he stood, "I owe you an apology."

She couldn't have been more surprised if she tried.

"An apology," she said, facing him with a wary expression.

"For last night," he said. "And then today-"

"You'll have to be more specific," she said, arms crossed over her chest, watching him squirm.

He searched her face, "You're enjoying this."

"I'm committing it to memory," she replied grandly. "An apology, from Thomas Shelby."

"Will you let me in," he said, gesturing inside. She eased back a step, allowing him entrance, shutting the door and following him into the kitchen. He removed his overcoat, claiming the same seat he'd taken the night before. She sat across from him, watching him fight against the desire to reshor his defenses and shut her out. There was a lengthy silence, and then, "I drank enough whiskey for ten men last night."

She offered a small nod, hard pressed to deny him that truth. He shook his head, "I had no business going anywhere but home."

Her cheeks ripened at the word _home_ , reliving his murmured request.

"You weren't yourself," she returned, a generous understatement.

He ran a hand through his dark hair, "I wasn't my best self, no."

"And today," she prompted, still reeling for their argument in his office.

"I spoke out of turn," he said.

"You promised to stop the fighting," she said quietly.

"I intend to," he nodded. "But it's to be done my way."

"Illegally."

"I told you," he replied. "I've bought a horse, I have as much a right to be at the races as everyone else."

"That doesn't make it an honest living, Thomas."

"This isn't about honesty, Mary," he said. "This is about getting some money back into Birmingham."

"For how long."

"As long as I can manage it."

She frowned, "You're planning to fix the races forever."

"There's a man," he said. "Billy Kimber, once he's out of the way-"

"And when he's out of your way, won't there be someone else just like him," she said. "Someone else you'll need to move."

"Most likely," Tommy nodded.

"Then when will it end."

He stared at her, wordless, then, "When I'm the last man standing."

She let the quiet stretch between them, before offering, "You're not alone in this world, Tommy."

He didn't react, elbows speared to his knees, head bowed.

"As much as you'd like to think you're removed from all of this," she continued. "From your family, Birmingham, from me, you're not."

"Why's that," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

"People are counting on you, Tommy," he said, laying a hand to his shoulder. "But more importantly, people care about you."

When she pressed a brief kiss to his cheek, he startled, eyes flickering upwards.

"Who, Mary," he said.

"Poll, and Arthur, and-"

He shook his head, holding her gaze steadily, "Who cares, Mary, tell me."

She shook her head, belatedly realizing the trap she'd laid for herself, "I don't know what you want me to say."

"Don't you," he said, searching her expression, disappointed at her aversion. After a few moments he gathered his overcoat, replacing his hat. He held the pad of his thumb to her red bottom lip, gentle enough to make her shiver. "When you have an answer, you know where to find me."

He left her standing in the kitchen, snared between wanting and knowing better.


	8. Chapter 8

The Garrison was just passing closing, Mary was behind the bar counting bottles. When voices cropped up outside, followed quickly by fists banging on the locked doors, she knew well enough to assume it was the Shelby brothers. Harry undid the locks, allowing them entrance.

"Mary."

She lifted her head at the sound of Tommy's voice, Arthur was rounding the corner of the bar.

She stared between them, "What's the matter."

Arthur beckoned her closer, "I won't hurt you if I don't have to."

She felt slightly ill, "Hurt me-"

"Come on, now, Mary."

She'd come to understand Arthur's pitched moods, from frenzied, and sometimes belligerent, to somber. But the expression he wore today was one she didn't recognize, and Tommy wouldn't meet her eyes.

Her heart began to race, retreating a step she began, "Arthur, please don't-"

Tommy slammed a hand down on the bar top, "Enough, Arthur."

Arthur surged forward, needing no further instruction. He had her by the waist, scooping her up and off of her feet, bringing her out from behind the bar. She struggled, elbow seeking his ribs, but he easily overpowered her efforts. Tommy indicated a straight back chair, Henry appeared on the periphery with a stretch of thin rope.

"Wait-"

Arthur ignored her protest, forcing her into the chair. Henry secured her wrists to the slats, winding the rope around and around, as she continued to argue with them. When they were through securing her, Tommy pulled up a second chair, sitting down opposite her.

Despite her reddened cheeks and mused hair, she was beautiful enough to give him pause. He steeled himself, unadjusted to women, anyone, distracting him so easily, "You know why you're tied up."

"No."

Her tone was biting, eyes narrowed at him. If he didn't know any better, he'd think she had just arrived to interrogate him.

"No," he repeated, watching her carefully.

"That's what I said."

"Careful," he warned, casual enough to offset the darkness gathering behind his eyes.

"Why would-"

"A shipment of whiskey was stolen this morning."

"Stolen," she repeated, brow furrowed. "Someone stole from you."

"The container was searched in transit."

The pieces fell into place, "It wasn't meant to be searched."

"The police received an anonymous tip."

"What are you accusing me of."

"I'm giving you an opportunity to tell me yourself."

Her glare intensified, "There's nothing to tell."

"You're sure."

She didn't dignify his question with an answer, chin lifted against his accusation.

"The way I see it, one of two things happened."

She waited, expression schooled indifferent. More hurt than she cared to admit in the face of his mistrust.

"Somebody on the inside gave up the goods," Tommy said, watching her with the curiosity of a scientist. "Or the cop on duty sold us out."

"If it was somebody here, it wasn't me," she said. "I wouldn't bite the hand that feeds me."

"No," he shook his head. "That wouldn't be in your best interest."

"Then why tie me up, why-"

Tommy lifted his arm, motioning to something just over her shoulder. Arthur slammed out the back door, returning momentarily with John. Between them was Ben, bloodied, one eye swollen shut. Mary nearly came out of her chair, outraged, terrified.

"It wasn't me-"

Tommy reached for his cigarettes, "Ben says differently."

Her expression deteriorated, incredulous, "And you believe him."

"Says he has proof," Tommy replied, leaning back in his chair. "The cop you tipped off."

"I didn't-"

"So you'll stay here," Tommy continued, no longer listening, a muscle bunched in his jaw. "Until I can sort this out."

"Tommy, please-"

She watched him replace his cap, "I wouldn't betray you," she said, a statement, voiced as though she could make the rules.

He paused, match burning between them, then smoke, "If that's true, then you'll have my gratitude to keep you warm tonight."

She angled her chin, aiming to wound she replied, "Better that, then any other part of you."

His expression iced, eyes hooded beneath the brim of his cap. Arthur shot back a retort, brazen enough to make her ears burn. Tommy watched color flood her face, "Stay with her, Harry," he instructed. "This shouldn't take long."

Defeat thinned the line of her mouth, she watched Tommy leave the bar, followed by Arthur and John, Ben held up between them. She'd seen the hurt in his eyes, at the suggestion he'd been played false by a woman he'd taken a chance on and shared a fraction of himself with. She tilted her head to the ceiling, blinking back tears, not once did she imagine Ben's revenge would cost her a place among the Blinders. Or that she'd begrudge him for it.

For better or for worse, she hoped silently, Tommy was able to uncover her truth.

* * *

A quarter past three, the doors swung open. Tommy stood in the reveal, expression unreadable. His brothers were quick to follow, looking no worse for the wear, Ben nowhere in sight.

"What happened, Tom," Harry said, elbows to the bar top. Tommy offered no reply, lighting a cigarette.

Arthur clapped his hands, crossing the room to kneel in front of her, "Sweet Mary, you'll live to see another day."

She moved to bite his finger when he cupped her face, inciting a hoot from John, already behind the bar routing for whiskey. Arthur drew back, wagging the unharmed digit at her, "Is that any way to treat your employer."

"Untie her," Tommy commanded mildly. "She's had enough."

"And for what," she demanded, looking past Arthur's wiry bulk. "All of this, to find out I told you the truth-"

"Have you considered the alternative," Tommy interrupted, ice blue eyes hooking hers. "That I put a bullet in your head without asking a question first."

She was finally quiet, out matched and out maneuvered. She winced when Arthur sawed through her bindings, wrists rubbed red and raw upon release. He gathered the frayed ropes as she stood. By the time she lifted her head, Tommy was a few steps away, extending a glass of whiskey, a proverbial olive branch, "Drink."

She considered the cup and the man holding it, there was blood on the sleeve of his shirt, otherwise he looked no worse for the wear.

"How did you figure out it wasn't me."

"I had Ben take us to the cop he claimed you tipped off," Tommy said. "Didn't take long for him to tell us differently."

"How do you get him to tell you the truth," she asked quietly.

Tommy's smirk was humorless, "It's tough to beat Blinder money on these streets."

"What did you do when he told you the truth."

He considered her for a moment, cigarette reduced to mostly ash between his lips, "I shot him."

"And Ben."

"Dead," Tommy affirmed.

She removed the glass from his hands, taking a long sip, stomach protesting. Once emptied, she pressed it back into his palm, and turned away. He watched her go, spine stiffened to crack, ignoring Arthur's cajoling.

She waited until they'd gone through a full bottle to themselves before stealing out the back door, coat barely over her shoulders as her feet met cobblestone. Thankful to have slipped out unnoticed, even more grateful she wasn't due back at the Garrison for another day.

It was pushing five o'clock in the morning when she awoke to pounding outside. She answered the door in a panic, dressing gown barely pulled over both shoulders, hair tangled around her face. Tommy was outside, eye bloodshot, smelling of whiskey. Surprised by the sight of him unannounced, she searched him for blood or worse, "Tommy-"

His crystalline eyes hit the peaks of her breasts and immediately squeezed shut, "Christ-"

"What do you want."

"You," he returned bluntly, eyes unscrewing, burning.

Her blush was scalding, voice laced with fury, "You'd sleep with a woman you'd no sooner trust-"

He held up a hand, disinterested in a lecture.

"What are you doing here."

"I need a favor in the morning."

She squinted, "It is morning."

He continued as though she hadn't spoken. "Go to this address."

She accepted the crumpled paper from his hand, opposite palm pinned to the front of her gown, an attempt at modesty.

"There's a package waiting," he said. "You'll pick it up and bring it to the office."

"What kind of package."

"Nothing you can't handle," he returned simply. She understood instantly, this was his way of apology, an invitation back into the fold.

Common sense told her to resist, "I don't work tomorrow."

"I'll pay you extra for your trouble," he said, tone brooking no further argument.

"You waited until I was home to tell me," she said, studying the fine lines of his face, the cut of his cheekbones above the lush of his mouth.

"You left without saying anything."

Some of her confidence resurfaced, eyes slated, "I'd spent enough time in your company for one day."

"You'll find it hard to be rid of me."

She didn't respond to his come on, expression steeled, "Good night, Mr. Shelby."

She was halfway to closing the door before his booted foot appeared in the swing. He was close enough for her to smell the whiskey on his breath.

"Open the door to me like this again," he said, voice split between promise and preservation. "And I'll have you, whether you want me or not."

She offered no reply, pressing the door firmly shut between them, pulse singing. It was barely an hour later before she heard another knock. She had been staring at the ceiling, fingers making lazy circles between her thighs as the sky shimmered between petal and gray. She paused just outside the door, palms lifted to the wood, listening.

"Mary," his voice was rough with sleeplessness. "Open the door."

She hesitated, then unplugged the lock, prepared for another argument. He was stripped of his overcoat, dark hair in disarray.

"Tommy-"

He gathered her into his chest, one hand to the back of her head, "You weren't sleeping."

She stayed quiet, shaking her head, afraid to give anymore away.

"And there isn't a shot in hell that I'll sleep if I don't do this first."

Before she could protest, his mouth covered hers, fingers dug into her hair. She melted against him, despite her better judgement. His touch was surprisingly gentle, his grip firm but breakable. She felt his restraint written in every humming muscle of his body. When he lifted his head, she stayed quiet, breath snagged at the back of her throat. He moved stray curls away from her forehead, releasing her in increments before fully disengaging and turning away. She stood in the doorway until he was down the stairs and out of sight.

She laid in bed another two hours before acknowledging sleep wasn't an option. She dressed, dousing her face in cool water, lining her eyes in dark charcoal to cover the sleeplessness. The address Tommy had provided was a short walk, the package easily attained. She wondered absently what was inside, knowing better than to tamper with anything meant for his hands.

Polly was in the main room when she arrived, tables stacked with betting books and short pencils, preparation for Tommy's endeavor at the races.

"Morning," she said, looking her over carefully. "I heard you were kept up last night."

Mary removed her hat, revealing delicate drop earrings, "A misunderstanding."

"That's what Tommy said," Polly said. "I'm glad to see you back."

She'd taken a liking to her early on, but her trust had been slower to come.

"He's waiting for you."

"I'll leave it with you, if-"

Polly shook her head, "If he's asked you to pick it up, he'll expect you to deliver it."

Thwarted, she nodded, rapping her knuckles to Tommy's office door, reminded instantly of his own knocking on her door only a few hours ago. He shouted for her to enter, she took a steadying breath and opened the door. He was at his desk, cigarette in hand. He looked like hell, worn out from drinking and little sleep, electric eyes red rimmed. She came closer, pulse skittering at the sight of him, "The package you wanted."

"Leave it," he said, gesturing to his desk.

She studied the mess, then, with a rueful smile, "Where."

"Anywhere."

"It's no wonder you don't sleep at night," she said, making a space for the brown box. "With this mess."

"Clean it up for me."

She looked up, he was watching her intently, cigarette between his lips. He spoke without a hint of mockery, he was making a request.

"You're asking," she said.

"I'm asking."

"Since when does Thomas Shelby ask for anything."

"I've no problem with asking," he replied, eyes burning into hers. "It's begging I won't do."

She offered a perfunctory nod before pulling her coat free of her shoulders and setting about the task of organizing his desk. He stood by the bar cart along the windows, chain smoking as she worked. Polly appeared close to noon, brow hiked at the sight of Mary in Tommy's abandoned chair, methodically cleaning his desk.

"Seems you've taken a secretary."

Tommy turned, evaluating Mary's process, then, "We'll see."

She shot him a look, but his back was already turned. Polly swallowed a smirk at the exchange, offering Mary tea. Within the hour Mary had worked through much of the desktop, when she moved to open a drawer she found it locked, testing the others and finding the same she looked up at Tommy's turned back, "Tommy."

He turned, dark hair untidy from running his fingers through it too many times.

"The drawers," she said. "Would you have me go through them as well."

He was quiet, weighing her question, she was unsurprised to see him hesitate. She was certain, the contents of his desk drawers went unseen by most of the Blinders, save maybe Polly. Wordless, he moved alongside of her, rifling through the organizing she'd done, expression unreadable.

"Is my work satisfactory."

"Better," he said simply, eyes hooking hers, she felt the word to the tips of her toes. He proffered keys, depositing them into her palm. "Finish the rest."

"It'll cost you."

The words left her mouth before she had time to consider the consequences. His smirk was humorless, "More sleepless nights, Ms. Byrne."

Her blush was iridescent, he curbed the urge to run his thumb over her cheek, as though he could lift the color clear from her skin. Instead, his hand lifted, thumb and forefinger following the slink of one earring.

"Money," she replied, steadying her voice.

He dropped his hand, pulling a wad of cash from his pocket, counting bills steadily onto the freshly cleared desktop, "A little extra," he said. "For your trouble."

She stiffened, unsure if he'd meant the drawers, or his early morning visits. He gathered his overcoat, cigarette notched between his lips, "I have a meeting."

"I'll return the keys to Polly when I leave."

He nodded, pulling his coat on and then his cap.

"Come to the Garrison when you're through," he said.

"More work," she said.

"A drink," he replied.

"With you."

"Is there someone else you were expecting," he asked. She shook her head, tongue tied. "I'll see you when you're done here."

He was out the door before she could reply, she heard him dolling instructions out to Polly and then silence in his wake. Polly appeared in the doorway, shoulder to the frame, smoking a tightly rolled clove cigarette, "You know what you're doing."

Polly's question, purposefully vague, gave her pause, "I-"

She broke off, her honest answer scaring her silent, she was fully in over her head.

"No," Polly shook her head, releasing a sigh. "I didn't think so."


	9. Chapter 9

The Garrison was nearly full, Harry waved her closer when she arrived.

"Tom's waiting for you."

She inclined her head towards the gallery, but Harry shook his head, "Back booth, you'll see him."

Surprised she turned, sure enough, Tommy was posted up in the farthest booth, overcoat and cap discarded, whiskey in hand. She crossed the room, nearly there when Arthur swooped her off her feet and onto the nearest empty chair. He held her hand in both of his, slurring, "Can you forgive me, sweet Mary Byrne."

She cast a wary glance at Tommy, his expression was flickering between annoyed and amused.

"Forgive you, what, Arthur."

"Letting my fool brother trick me into thinking you played us false."

She stared down at him, hard pressed to deny the Shelby boys were as capable of being endearing as they were ruthless. She cupped his unshaved face with her free hand, donning a serious expression, "Has no one told you, you shouldn't listen to everything Thomas Shelby says."

Arthur released a shout of amusement, arm looping Mary's legs in a mock embrace, face to the fabric of her coat, "Did you hear that, brother."

Tommy lifted his glass, hooking Mary's gaze.

"Don't keep him waiting," John warned, brows bobbing.

"Let me down, Arthur," she chided, hands to his shoulder. He lifted her easily to the ground, wiry muscles flexing with the effort.

She leaned up, pressing a chaste kiss to his rough cheek, "You're forgiven."

He whooped, angling her in the direction of Tommy as he turned to reach for more whiskey to fill his glass. Mary sank into the booth, knees bumping Tommy's legs, she made quick work of withdrawing. She shed her coat, brushing unruly curls free of her cheek.

He poured her a glass of whiskey, lifting his own, "To your promotion."

"Promotion," she repeated, glass paused just shy of her lips.

"Secretary to Shelby Company," he said. "My desk hasn't been so properly organized in years."

"And what of my bookkeeping duties here."

"You'll retain them," Tommy said. "I'll see to it you're paid for holding onto both."

She took a long drink of whiskey, understanding her promotion meant she was further mired in Shelby business endeavors.

"You'll do most of your work from the office, now."

She frowned, "All of the books are here."

"I'll have them moved," Tommy replied simply, cigarette slipping smoke between them. "Easily done."

"You make everything look easily done," she said quietly.

"A charade," he said, something like a smile tilting his mouth. "All of it."

"An expensive one," she commented.

Tommy released a heavy breath, nodding in agreement, "Everything comes with a price, Mary."

"Even people," she said, a touch of sadness in her voice.

"You think less of yourself now that you're working for me."

She detected a hint of hurt behind his question, a glimmer of the infamous pride he so staunchly denied.

"No, not less," she replied. "Just differently."

"We do what we have to, to survive," he said.

"Survive, yes," she nodded, picking up the cigarette he'd dropped in the ashtray. "What about living, Tommy."

A smile ghosted over his lips, "What about it."

"We should do more than just survive."

"That's what this business is about," he said, arms lifted to encompass the slowly growing empire around him, the men in peaked caps, the bar in his name, his newly promoted employee. "With enough money, we'll-"

"No," she cut him off, shaking her head. "Money's not it."

"Tell me, then," he removed the cigarette from her mouth, replacing it between his own lips. "Ms. Byrne, what's living really about."

"Love," she answered honestly, expression growing distant, a past life flickering in her eyes. "If you have that, you have everything."

He was quiet, she wondered absently if he meant to argue with her. Instead he lifted his glass, "To love, then."

"To love," she agreed, synching her glass to his before taking a healthy sip. It burned a path clear to her stomach.

"When's the last time you had everything."

His question caught her off guard, she answered before she could overthink the man posing it, "Before the war."

"Seems to be the case with most people in Birmingham."

"You," she said, carefully.

"Yes, me," he nodded, around lighting another cigarette.

"What was she like."

"Alive," he said, leaning back, lost for a moment in remembering. "And in love with me."

She smiled, "Beautiful, I'm sure."

"Beautiful," he agreed, still faraway.

"What happened to her."

"Consumption," Tommy replied. "She died."

Mary finished her whiskey, almost sorry she'd asked, sorrier still for seeing the pain streak through his crystalline eyes.

"And you."

"Gone," she said. "To another woman, and then to war."

"Did he come home?"

"No," she shook her head. "No, he never came back."

"Now you see why I invest my money into this enterprise," he said. "Not love."

She offered a wry smile, "A wise strategy, Mr. Shelby."

"Tommy," he corrected. "Or Thomas, anything but that."

"You're my employer, Tommy."

"I'd like to be more."

She circled her glass between her hands, eyes on the golden liquid, avoiding his stare.

"You've already leapt into one Shelby's arms tonight," he said, expressionless, jealousy spearing his gut like an arrow. "Why not mine."

"It was only Arthur," she replied, rueful, avoiding the crux of his question. Knowing full well, Arthur had no designs on her person, she had nothing to fear from him. While his brother was a different matter entirely, he meant to consume her in full.

"He puts you at ease."

The thought of Arthur easing any woman's conscience brought a quirked smile to her lips, "Something like that."

"And me," he said, brow lifting.

"You make my hands shake."

Her naked honesty left them both quiet, she watched the slow transformation of his features, the stony countenance dissolving to something more recognizable. Desire turning his eyes white hot, ""I'd have all of you shaking if you let me."

Her body froze and then liquified under his steady stare. She stayed perfectly still, the figs of her cheeks lit pink. He reached out, thumb brushing the lush of her bottom lip, "Jesus, if I could sleep I know I'd dream of you."

She caught his wrist, uncertain if she meant to push him off, or pull him closer. The resulting motion simply fused them together, his knuckles against her cheek, her fingers around his wrist.

"Say something," he said, voice hoarse.

"I did dream of you last night," she said. "Before you came back."

His groan was instantaneous, "Mary-"

Arthur appeared, inopportune and ill timed as ever, "There's trouble."

Tommy's expression transformed, desire replaced with a burning intensity. Mary looked between them, "What kind."

"A police inspector," Arthur said. "Likely, Campbell, by the sounds of it."

Tommy offered a growled curse.

"The cop," Arthur said. The night before flooded back to her, the officer Tommy had killed over his stolen goods. "You think he was somebody important."

"No," Tommy shook his head, already halfway into his overcoat. "Campbell has been looking for a convenient reason to call, this is it."

"Tommy-"

"Find Poll," he snapped to Henry, next pulling Finn's attention. "You'll bring Mary straight home."

She tried again, "Tommy-"

"Get John," he continued, dispatching Arthur. "And you," he cupped her face between his palms. "Wait up for me."

"What are you going to do," she said quietly, brow knit.

"Whatever needs to be done."

"You killed a man."

He nodded, resigned, "Not my first, Mary."

"No," she said, nodding absently.

"Wait for me," he asked again, fiercer this time, fingers slunk into her hair. She stared back at him, common sense dissolving, he was undeniable.

"Yes."

He pressed a brief, bruising kiss to her lips, then released her.

"Go with, Finn," he said. "Stay inside."

She watched him go, flanked by his brothers, cap pulled low over his brow, looking every inch the gangster he was angling to be.


	10. Chapter 10

It was nearly three a.m. when he came to her doorstep, knuckles scraped to hell, left eye badly bruised.

"What happened."

"Doesn't matter," he said, gathering her into his arms for a kiss. Her hands found hanks of his overcoat, hanging on. It was raining lightly, she shivered against him. "Take me inside."

"For tea," she murmured against his mouth.

He leaned back a fraction, searching her expression, "For whatever you want."

Her gaze lifted, hooked on the front of his peaked cap, the razors had been hastily cleaned, the fabric stained red with blood. He watched her retreat, regretting it.

"You're safe with me," he promised quietly.

She nodded absently, unconvinced, "I know."

"Mary-"

"Tea, Tommy," she said abruptly, disinterested in being told he was a safe bet, when they both knew differently. "That's what I want."

He nodded, removing his cap, stuffing it into the pocket of his overcoat. She turned and he followed her inside, closing and locking the door at his back. She'd left her hair undone, it was a riot of curls over both shoulders, she looked younger, unbound and in her own home. He sat at the table, cigarettes in hand, as she laid a mug in front of him.

"What happened," she said, fingertips brushing his shredded knuckles.

"Ran into some trouble with Campbell."

"What of John," she said. "And Arthur."

He smirked up at her, "They're fine, sweet Mary."

Her cheeks colored at his endearment.

"And the inspector," she said, trying to sidetrack him, their previous conversation snuck up between them.

Tommy eased back in his chair, relieving a heavy sigh, "He may be a problem."

"What kind."

"Nothing we can't handle," he said, striking a match. "Just haven't figured out how."

She brushed the back of her hand across his forehead, pressing hair free of his face, gentling his expression, "Is this why you can't sleep, Tommy."

He looked up at her, eye lashes still wet from the rain, "France."

Her brow furrowed, well versed in soldier stories, "Tell me."

"I will," he nodded. "One day," he sounded faraway all of the sudden. She turned to the kettle, pulling it off the heat, questions nipping her heels. He came to stand behind her, lightly holding her waist, palms burning, despite the rain, despite the cold. She felt branded, breath caught at the back of her throat. "Tell me about your dream, Mary."

His rough voice was pitched low, she felt his casual command like an electric shock. Their conversation, interrupted at the Garrison, restarted. She tipped her head, expression invisible behind her lush of curls.

"Tell me what you want."

"You," she said honestly, voice quiet, not yet adjusted to speaking this truth out loud. It was unnatural to desire a man she had learned to avoid, then come to depend on. But she had seen his heart, fashioned of thorns and steel, busted at best, and was left wanting more. She'd seen what gentling his defenses had the power to do.

"What else," he pressed.

"Waking up beside you."

He bowed his head, forehead to her hair, grip tightening along her waist.

"Your hands on me-"

He pulled her around to face him, palming her cheek, mouth buzzing just above hers.

"Let me," he said, gruff. "Let me in, Mary."

She swallowed, pulse upticking at the feel of him hard against her thigh. His reaction, the quick switch from reserved to heady, left her slightly breathless. It was then that she understood, she wanted more of him than unchecked nighttime visits and stolen embraces. When she searched his eyes she couldn't quite see past his wanting. Panic, at overexposure, at having shared too much, bubbled up.

She braced both hands to his chest, "What I want, and what you can give me, are two different things, Tommy."

He shook his head, "I'll be the judge of that."

She pulled fully away from him, craving space. Considering in quiet, his peaked cap, the violence of his hands. She began to claw apart desiring a man to fuck, and wanting to belong to him, as though it could be easily done.

His voice gentled, sensing her retreat, "Ask me," he said. "Ask me for what you want."

"I want you safe," she returned, confident of one thing at least. "And for as long as you run the Blinders, you're the farthest thing from it."

"I have a responsibility-"

"Self afflicted."

He paused at this, at her interruption, or her choice of words, she wasn't certain.

"I'm trying to be better than what I was," he said after a lengthy quiet.

"No," she shook her head. "You're trying to be richer, Tommy."

"Money will give us means to get out of Birmingham, to-"

"At what cost," she interrupted, holding his cap between them, yanked from his overcoat pocket, bloodied. "What cost."

He was silent, staring back at her, beat.

"I want you," she said, emboldened by the naked honesty she'd already laid at his feet. "But I know better than to need you, Thomas."

His eyes grew cold, he offered a humorless smirk, "You have me beat, then, Mary."

He left without another word, removing the cap from her hands, replacing it on his head as he disappeared into the nighttime.

* * *

She spent another sleepless night in bed, eyes on the ceiling, hearing her parting words to Tommy over and over again. Come morning she was no more rested, or ready, for the world than she had been hours before. When she arrived at the Garrison, Harry informed her that her office had been tidily moved down the street to the Shelby office. She dreaded the thought of facing Tommy, but didn't know any other way.

The office was quiet when she arrived. Polly was waiting at her desk, two cups of tea laid out, wearing an expression Mary couldn't quite put a name to.

"Polly."

"Come on," she motioned, indicating the chair across from her own. Her lifted hand was bejeweled with rings, skin weathered with age and a life harder than Mary could imagine. Her coppery hair was constantly fighting pins and combs, today was no different, framing her face in untidy whorls. Mary envied her easy confidence, one not born from great beauty, but of steadily knowing her own worth.

"Is everything alright," Mary asked, brow knit.

"It's time we talked."

"About what," she said, sitting down, mug cupped between her hands, the steam warming her cheeks.

"Tommy," Polly said, evenly. 

"What's he done now," Mary said, immediately wary.

"I mean, what he wants from you."

Mary hid her expression behind the mug in her hands, drinking deeply, then, "I don't know what you mean."

"You don't," Polly said, taking up her own cup. "Or you don't want to."

"Most days, I think he just wants me to be quiet."

Polly offered a wry smile, "Tommy can be a hard man to read."

"Yes, he can."

"He wasn't always this way," Polly shook her head. "As a boy he wore his heart on his sleeve, and now-"

She broke off, head bowed for a moment.

"He keeps everyone at a distance," Mary said. "Stretched at arms length."

"A way of coping, I'd imagine," Polly offered tiredly, well versed in the demons each Shelby boy brought home from war.

Mary dropped her gaze, admitting, "He has a kind heart, beneath all of that."

"You've seen it, too."

When she lifted her eyes, Polly was looking at her, something like triumph dancing in her hazel eyes. They sat in a comfortable quiet for a while, passing tea between them to replenish their cups. Finally, Mary broke the silence, "What does Tommy want with me, Polly."

Polly paused, then, "What do you think of him."

She fashioned a lie, cheeks already burning, "He's my employer, I don't-"

She waved a hand, silencing Mary's diversion.

"Every woman knows when she's being pursued," Polly said, driving finally to the point. "I'm asking if you want him."

Mary released a breath, "I don't even know what he wants from me."

Polly's brow rose slowly, "Don't you."

"Loyalty," Mary offered, a middling ground.

"Love."

"I don't think either of us have that to give."

Polly leaned back in her chair, "When I met my husband, my first thought was he wasn't the man for me."

Mary traced the curling lip of her tea cup, voice neutral, "What changed your mind."

Polly laughed, humorless, "Nothing, he wasn't the man for me."

"But you did love him," Mary said, surprised, brow knit. "Eventually, I mean."

"Never," she replied. "All he ever gave me were my children."

Mary considered her, then, "You think Tommy has more to offer."

"Much more," Polly affirmed, setting her cup aside to take up Mary's hands, a rare show of affection. "He may be a hard man to reason with, but he's a fierce protector, he'd see to your safety and-"

"I loved a boy before the war."

Polly's grip tightened on her hands, expression wan, "And where is he now."

"He fell out of love," she said quietly.

"Tommy isn't so fickle."

"No, he's not, is he," she said, pulling away to stand, hands running the length of her biceps. She could feel his touch as though he were standing beside her. She squeezed her eyes shut against the fear that his hands on her was all he'd ever require, casting her aside once he'd had his release.

Polly offered a wry smile, "And you intend to refuse him, a man who knows what he wants without question."

"There's nothing to refuse," she said, shaking her head. "He's made no offer of love, or plans-"

"And when he does."

She studied Polly, asking, "He's told you."

"I know my nephew."

"He has a mind for money," Mary said. "But what else."

"You think him incapable of love."

"I think he believes himself to be above it."

Polly's smile was sad, "If you were to ask him, I think he'd tell you different."

Mary shook her head, snagged between wanting to know him better, and wanting nothing from him at all. Preservation and her better judgement leading her towards the latter.

"He'll be in any minute," Polly said, checking the clock. "He had a meeting this morning."

Mary nodded, tidying her desk, preparing for the day ahead.

"You'll think about what I said, won't you."

She lifted her head, Polly was poised in the doorway. She hesitated, then, offered the truth, "I will."

A smile transformed her face, rushing out any lingering sadness around her dark eyes, "Good, girl."

Tommy arrived late, slamming the door to his office behind him. Polly craned her neck, catching Mary's gaze through her open door, brows lifted. Mary offered a singular shrug before turning back to her workbooks. Knowing full well it was likely she was the cause of his foul mood. By closing time he hadn't resurfaced. Mary donned her hat and coat, slipping quietly out, grateful when his door didn't open. 


	11. Chapter 11

In the week that followed Mary's rejection, Tommy was intolerable. He rarely spoke in anything besides a pitched growl, a miasma of smoke circling his every move. He smoked more than he ate, and drank more than he smoked. When Arthur cajoled him into visiting the local whorehouse and none of the women were blonde, Tommy insisted on leaving.

"This can't go on," Arthur said, yanking his overcoat around him, glaring at his brother.

"You're right," Tommy replied, unmoved. "You're likely to catch the clap."

Arthur rounded on him, forcing his attention, "I don't mean whoring, Tom."

Tommy's expression was pure ice, a cool foil to the red hot cigarette in his mouth.

"So sweet Mary won't have you."

He pushed past, disinterested in any pacification Arthur, or anyone for that matter, could offer.

"There were women before her," Arthur said, following on his heels. "And they'll be plenty after, I'm sure."

Tommy jammed his hands into his pockets to hide his fists. 

"She's pretty enough, Tom, but she's barely got any tits-"

Tommy whirled to face him, vision violently red, as always, he was spectacular in his fury. Arthur's nose was busted before he registered swinging on him. Regret coalesced, for this sin, and all those behind him, "Arthur-"

Arthur clasped his shoulders, relieved to have finally achieved a rise out of him, after days of watching him simmer slowly up to his boiling point. He brought them nearly forehead to forehead, unworried about the blood on his upper lip, the crushed cartilage in his nose, "You can't keep this up, brother."

Tommy shut his eyes, Mary's face was the only thing he saw.

"You have to see that," Arthur continued, quieting his voice. "It's tearing you apart, and you're taking the rest of us with you."

"I can't move without thinking of her," Tommy replied, unflinching, voice rough. "Christ, I can't sleep-"

"Have you told her," Arthur held him a fraction tighter. He hadn't seen Tommy this vulnerable since well before the war, heart weary for watching him now. "You know how women like to hear these things."

"What would it change," Tommy demanded, breaking apart.

"You're a man who takes what he wants, aren't you."

He was quiet a moment, then, "Not this time, Arthur."

"What will you do then, Tom."

Tommy flicked his cigarette aside, shoring his defenses, "Keep going."

* * *

In his desolation, Tommy hadn't considered the chances of Alfie's retaliation for killing Ben. Wrongly assuming the other man was too busy keeping out of prison for scheming, or revenge on the Blinders, so soon after his release. When John burst into the office, talking trouble at the docks led by men under Solomons' orders, his attention was easily diverted. Within the hour he'd mobilized his men and arrived waterside, equipped to fight, but found nothing amiss.

"What are we doing here, John," Tommy said, the line of his mouth speaking to impatience.

"It was up and down Watery Lane," John said, insistent, disinterested in being called a liar. "Everybody was talking-"

"We believe you, John boy," Arthur assured him.

"Do you think it was Solomons' boys spreading the rumors," John said, staring between them.

"We'll split up," Tommy said, angry all over again, the chances they'd been played were growing the longer the docks remained calm. "Arthur, to the Garrison, John and I will go to the office."

In the twenty minutes it took Tommy and John to reach the office, his temperament had degenerated to deadly. When he opened the door, Polly startled at the sight of him.

"What's wrong, now."

"Solomons' boys had us waiting by the docks for trouble," John said, moving deeper into the room.

"And," Polly pressed, brow lifted.

"And, nothing," Tommy snapped. "They never showed."

"Then where are they."

John shook his head, "We don't know, we came back thinking they might be here."

Polly's brow knit, "You don't think Ada's in trouble-"

Arthur burst through the door before either man could provide an answer, Mary slumped in his arms. The room broke into chaos, Tommy's voice rising above the rest, demanding to know what had happened.

"Lay her down, Arthur," Polly instructed.

John cleared the table with a quick sweep, sending cups and two plates shattering across the floor. She was out cold, mouth bloodied, another gash along her hairline. Her jacket had been ripped, buttons missing at the waist.

"I'll only ask one more time," Tommy warned, snatching up Arthur's collar, forcing his attention. "What the fuck happened."

"Harry saw her picked up outside the Garrison."

Tommy's eyes narrowed to slits, "Picked up."

"Solomons' boys," Arthur said. "Henry follow them."

"What a bloody fool," Polly snapped. "Just out of prison, now this."

"This is about Ben," John said.

"It's about his fucking pride," Tommy returned, voice pitched low, a muscle working in his jaw.

"This will cost him," Polly replied.

"Where's Henry."

Arthur swallowed, tone grim, "He's dead, Tommy."

There was quiet until Polly asked, "How did he die."

"Shot," Arthur replied.

"Where's the body."

"At the Garrison," Arthur replied. "Harry has him around back."

"Finn, go with John," Tommy instructed. "I want him buried properly."

They nodded, disappearing into the night.

"Find Ada," Tommy said, motioning to Arthur and Polly respectively. "Make sure she's home safe."

Polly hesitated, "Who's to tend to Mary."

Tommy yanked his sleeves up, exposing sinewy forearms, "I will."

She nodded, hat pulled low as she exited the house. Arthur came around the table, clasping a hand to Tommy's shoulder, "She'll be alright."

Tommy shook him off, "Go."

Arthur hesitated another moment, "Once she wakes up, you'll talk to her, she'll-"

"Enough, Arthur," Tommy snarled. "Go."

He turned on his heel, following in Polly's wake Tommy bowed his head, eyes squeezed shut for a moment, his occupation, his choices, catching up to crash around him. Mary murmured something unintelligible, drawing him back into the present.

"Mary."

He wet the cloth, replacing it along her forehead, blotting blood from her feverish skin.

"You're safe now, Mary."

He gently removed her coat, balling it up and replacing it under her head. She was entirely still, a maiden put to sleep in a children's fairytale. Tommy sat beside her, after lighting a fire, willing her awake. He held her hand, running his thumb over and over the architecture of her knuckles. Her hands were small between his own, skin as smooth and cool as marble. He spoke softly, reassuring her, and himself, that when she woke he would make things right. She remained unconscious, cheeks the same color as fresh snow fall, revealing the constellation of freckles across the bridge of her nose. He finished one cigarette after another. The waiting twisted to agony, guilt close to follow.

When Polly returned, having left Arthur standing guard at Ada's door, the room was a haze of smoke and Tommy was bleary eyed.

"Go out, Tom," she said, yanking off her coat. "Get some fresh air."

"I won't leave her."

"You look like hell, Tom," Polly returned, disinterested in arguing. "Go and-"

"Tommy."

They both jumped at the sound of Mary's voice. Polly immediately moved closer, the back of her hand to Mary's forehead, relief coloring her expression, "Her fever broke."

Mary's dark eyes blinked open, revealing pin prick pupils, some of the color had returned to her cheeks.

Tommy cupped her face, voice rough, "Mary-"

Her brow furrowed as she stared up at his ashen face, "What's the matter, my love."

He froze, standing over her, expression unreadable. Her eyes fluttered shut again, head tipping to one side. Polly was silent, watching Tommy's face from beneath the fringe of her lashes. He cleared his throat, "I'll get some air."

Polly nodded, picking up Mary's hands in her own. Tommy walked up and down the street twice over, smoking, shaken to his core. Finally out of cigarettes, he turned back towards the house. When he stepped inside Mary was sitting up, wrapped in a soft blanket, with a mug of tea in her hands. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, curls turned platinum in the firelight. He looked her over, for further injury or abuse he'd somehow missed.

"How do you feel," he said quietly, moving no closer, eyes sharpened to knife points.

"Fine," she lied. He was angry, every line in his body was drawn tight enough to vibrate. "I have a headache, nothing more."

"What happened."

"I was outside the Garrison," she said, wincing with the effort. "It was Alfie's men."

"She needs to rest," Polly cut in.

"I'm alright-"

"You're a liar," Tommy snapped. "And a bad one at that."

"Let me take her upstairs-"

"No."

Polly stiffened at his rebuke, "Tom."

"She's not leaving my fucking sight."

"She can barely sit upright," Polly snapped, one hand to Mary's shoulder, the other hitched to her hip.

"I'm not arguing."

"She needs to rest-"

"I'm right here," Mary cut in, gaze lifting between them. "I can hear you."

"Let her bloody sleep, Tom."

A muscle worked in his jaw, finally, "Go into the next room where I can see you," he relented. "You can sleep on the couch."

Polly made a noise of discontent, but Mary simply stood and left the room, bone weary and willing to take his compromise if it meant laying her head back down. She collapsed onto the couch, vaguely aware of Polly fretting over her, pulling a blanket across her shoulders. 

It was only when a hand brushed curls free of her temple that Mary realized it wasn't Polly at all. She recognized Tommy's blunt fingers, smelled his cigarettes. She unscrewed her eyes, he was crouched on the carpet close to her head, expression still severe, strain written in the line of his mouth.

"Sleep, Mary," he said quietly. "I'll see to it you're safe."


	12. Chapter 12

Mary awoke to raised voices. She sat up eyes squeezed shut, testing her pounding head, relieved to feel some of the pressure subside after a moment. By the time she opened her eyes, Arthur had come to kneel in front of her.

"Sweet Mary," he said, chucking her lightly under the chin. "It's good to see you awake."

She gripped his wrist, offering a wry smile, "You carried me home."

He offered a gruff reply, embarrassed in the face of her gratitude. Tommy was in the doorway, cigarette poked between his lips, disgruntled from no sleep and plotting. His overcoat was long discarded, revealing a wrinkled white shirt. He'd removed his vest and collar, nearly undressed by his usual standards, stripped of the dark layers she was adjusted to seeing. Mary vaguely remembered his voice in her ear, reassuring her she was safe.

"And Henry," she said. "He followed me, he's the reason I was able to get away."

The room stilled, quiet for a moment, before Polly entered, "You'll need to drink something, Mary."

She accepted the mug from her hands, eyes never leaving Tommy, "Where's Henry, I want-"

"Dead," Tommy replied, emotionless. "We buried him last night."

What little color had returned to her cheeks drained, "Dead."

Polly shot Tommy a withering look, before instructing, "Lay back, Mary-"

"No," she pressed the mug back into Polly's grip, making an attempt to stand. Arthur and Polly respectively blocked the motion, hands to her shoulders. She stared at them, stricken, "He's dead because of me-"

"He's dead because of Alfie," Tommy corrected coolly

Mary was inconsolable, expression desolate, "This is my fault, if I'd-"

"Everybody out."

Arthur hesitated, "Tom, I think-"

"I'm not asking you to think," Tommy cut him off. "I'm asking you to get the fuck out."

Polly murmured something in Mary's ear, before straightening. She walked by Tommy, pausing for a moment, "I hope you know what you're doing."

"Out, Poll."

She turned, making a noise of ill concealed discontent as she walked away. Arthur followed, grumbling. He slammed the door behind them, weary of bowing to his brother's rampant temper. Mary had her head buried in her hands by the time the room was clear.

"How much do you remember," he said quietly.

She straightened slowly, cheeks damp, the twin dark circles beneath her eyes deeply pronounced, "I left the Garrison," she said, voice steadying as she spoke. "They were a block away, waiting for me."

Tommy was perfectly still, angry as hell, expression dangerous, "What did they say to you."

Her cheeks darkened, she couldn't quite meet his gaze, "They called me your whore."

A muscle jumped along Tommy's jaw, he said nothing, waiting.

"They planned to ransom me," she said. "In Alfie's name."

"Where was Alfie."

"I don't think he had any idea what those men had planned," she shook her head. "I never even saw him."

He was made of stone, so still she would have thought him part of the furniture, if not for the wildfire simmering in his blue eyes.

"Say something," she said quietly.

"I need to think."

"To think," she repeated, carefully.

"Whether it was Alfie's order or not, I'll have to make an example out of him."

"Please don't match their violence with your temper."

He stared at her, disbelieving, "You're asking me to stand by and do nothing."

"I'm asking you to rise above this."

He made a noise of impatience.

"You make the rules, Tommy," she reasoned, near pleading.

"King of Birmingham," he said, humorless, haunted.

"You told me you wanted to be better," she pressed forward, refusing to be dissuaded by his degenerating temper.

"Enough, Mary."

"If you go after him, all you're doing-"

"Enough, Mary," his voice was loud enough to make her jump. He ran an unsteady hand through his hair, quieting, quickly self contained, "I need to think."

She didn't call after him when he left the room, retreating into the couch, eyes shut when Polly returned to her side.

"Be patient with him, love," Polly said quietly, the back of her hand to Mary's cheek, a gesture so familial it brought tears to her eyes. "He's frightened, and doesn't know how else to show it."

"Frightened," Mary repeated softly, disbelieving. She imagined a man like Thomas Shelby wasn't frightened of anything in the world. She had long come to begrudge him that quick confidence in the face of any obstacle.

"Give him time," Polly reassured.

Mary swallowed, then asked a question, though she dreaded the answer, "Tell me what happened to Henry."

Polly hesitated, then, "He was shot in the back."

She said nothing, tears pouring from beneath her lashes. Replaying over and over, her last memories of Henry, guilt settled like a stone in her stomach.

* * *

She remained bundled on the couch through the day, awoken occasionally for tea and crackers, sleeping fitfully. It was nearing seven o'clock when she heard the door of the Shelby's office snap open and Polly's voice, "Where's Tommy."

She recognized John's gruff reply, "Same place he was the last time you asked."

"At the Garrison."

"That's right," John said. "That's where he's been all day."

"I know," Polly snapped. "I've been asking for him all day."

"He's drunk, Poll," John returned. "You won't get anything out of him until he sleeps this off."

Mary rose unsteadily, ignoring the thumping in her head. When she was clear headed enough to walk, she found a mirror, plaiting her hair and splashing water on her face. Studying the results, she was hard pressed to say either had any improvement on her appearance. 

At the sight of her in the doorway halfway into her coat, Polly opened her mouth to argue, but Mary was quicker, "I'm going to the Garrison to see Tommy."

John shook his head, "I don't think Tom's in any shape for company, Mary."

"I'm not interested in having a drink with him," she replied. "I'm bringing him home."

John and Polly exchanged an unreadable look.

"And I suppose there's no stopping you," Polly said, brow lifted.

"No."

"Walk with Mary, John," Polly instructed. "I'll be alright."

They stepped out into the street, met with twilight.

"I slept so long," she said absently, brow knit.

"You needed the rest," John replied, shaking his head. "They were rough with you."

They walked in silence, he left her at the Garrison's doors, returning to Polly once he knew she was safely inside. At the sight of Mary in the bar, Arthur was quickly on his feet, intercepting her, "Mary-"

"I'm here for Tommy."

"You should be in bed," Arthur said, eyes on the cut at her forehead. She ignored him, pressing past and towards the gallery. She yanked open the door, revealing Tommy, alone and bleary eyed.

"Thomas."

He looked up, nearly sick at the sight of her, the bruises on her face fresh enough to look pink around the edges.

"Christ," he murmured, unsteadily, pouring more whiskey. "You're everywhere."

She moved closer, stopping his hand, the whiskey spilling between them, "It's time to leave."

"I'm not done drinking," he replied, extending his hand towards the nearly finished bottle on the table top. 

She lifted it, easily dumping the contents onto the floor, "You're finished, now."

His eyes narrowed, he made to stand and face her, but tilted sideways instead. She caught him, both hands braced to his chest.

"We'll put your coat on," she said. "And I'll get you home."

He was wordless as she threaded his arms into either sleeve of his overcoat. She guided him out of the gallery, past Harry and Arthur, and outside. He tried unsuccessfully to light a cigarette, going through two matches before she offered to help. Cigarette finally lit, she guided one of his arms over her shoulders and led him up the street.

"No moon," Tommy said, head tilted upward.

She followed the motion, searching the darkening skies.

"Full moon invites trouble," Tommy murmured, more to himself than for her benefit. "Gypsy luck."

They reached his doorstep without interruption or delay. She watched as he fumbled with the keys, finally opening the door. He looked her over, eyes catching on the bruises discoloring her skin, "I'll see Alfie Solomons burn for what he's done to you."

She took a step back, unsettled by the bleak look in his eyes, the promise of uncertain violence in her name. A whistle sounded a few houses down, she turned, Arthur was ambling slowly towards them, "Come on, Mary, I'll see you home."

She moved free of Tommy's doorstep, grateful for the excuse to leave him to his own devices for the night.


	13. Chapter 13

Tommy awoke with a hangover strong enough to curdle his stomach. He ignored the feeling, climbing out of bed despite his headache. It was barely dawn before he was banging on doors, waking the rest of the Blinders.

Arthur and Polly met him at the office, squinting, "You look like hell, Tom."

He ignored Polly's comment, smoking, drumming his fingers against the table top, "Where's John, where's-"

The doors opened, on cue, and the remainder of the family entered. Despite his raging hangover, Tommy looked ready to do battle. His hair was kept beneath his razored cap, and his suit and overcoat suggested a close kept timetable of revenge. His hands barely shook as he lit a cigarette.

"I assume you have a plan for Solomons and his boys," Polly said, expression arch. "Or did the whiskey get in the way of your plotting."

Tommy levelled her with a cutting stare, willing her quiet without saying a word. She returned his glare, unmoved, brow lifted in anticipation.

"Mary says it's likely Solomons wasn't behind the abduction," Tommy said. "He never even laid eyes on her."

"You think they moved without him," Polly said, surprised.

"Sounds like it," Tommy replied.

She made a noise of disgust, "They're more foolish than I thought."

"And they'll pay for it," Tommy said, a promise. "Solomons, too."

Arthur rubbed his hands together, "What have you come up with, Tom."

"You're to round up the boys," he said, exhaling smoke. "I want his warehouse razed to the ground."

"And his fucking money," Arthur said.

"There can't be much," Polly shook her head.

"Enough to have men on his books," Tommy said. "Moving against us in his name."

"What should we do when we find it," Arthur pressed.

Tommy's expression hardened, "Burn it with everything else."

"Tommy, we could use-"

"Spread the word," He interrupted Polly's suggestion, voice brooking no further argument. "His money's no good in Birmingham."

Arthur and John turned for the door, prepared to rally the Blinders, and supplies, to regroup by nightfall.

Polly faced Tommy squarely, as he poured a glass of whiskey, "What do you intend to do about Mary, Tom."

"You'll stay with her until this is through."

"That's not what I'm talking about," Polly replied, refusing to be put off.

"What are you talking about, then," his response was biting, laced with regret for the last forty-eight hours.

"You're as much of a bloody fucking fool as Solomons' men, if you haven't given any thought to what you'll say to her," Polly snapped.

"What is there to say," Tommy demanded, a warning hung in his crystalline eyes.

Polly ignored his expression, plowing forward, "She's not like the rest of us," she shook her head. "She's not built for days like yesterday."

Tommy was quiet, eyes on the far wall.

"Talk to her," Polly implored. "She's as frightened as you were, likely for the same reason-"

His attention snapped back, he caught her gaze, "And what reason is that."

"Whatever is between you two," Polly said, pointedly. "Should be said to her, not to me."

"I'm asking you-"

"And I'm telling you," Polly cut him off, slapping a hand to the table top between them. Fully fed up with his antics, his inability to expose any vulnerable part of himself for too long. "If you love her, say the words."

Tommy disappeared inside himself, she watched his quick transformation from flesh to stone with open contempt. Shaking her head, Polly gathering her coat, mouth compressed to a thin line. She continued dressing, replacing her hat, hand to the door when she paused, "You're one of the lucky ones, Thomas Shelby."

His smirk was humorless, "Am I, Poll."

"You've found a woman who sees things in you," she said. "Things you can't even see in yourself."

When he didn't react, she added, "That's what love is, Tom, it's being better, not because you are, but because someone believes you can be."

The silence stretched between, finally she yanked the door open and left him. The line of his shoulders depressed in her absence, he dropped into the nearest chair, head between his hands. Finally alone, finally able to give into his baser despair.

* * *

Polly and Mary spent the day at home, Polly insisting Mary needed rest, while she herself paced the floors. Mary complied, unaware of the Blinder's plans, and Polly's instructions to shelter her from their unfolding. It was nearing ten o'clock when they heard raised voices in the street. Polly stood to open the door, knowing it was the Shelby brothers, returning from a war well won. 

Mary sat up at the sight of Arthur, dirtied, smelling of smoke. He grinned at her, "Sweet Mary."

She stood, moving closer, brow knit, "What's happened."

Another soot stained face appeared. She reached out, running her thumb across John's darkened cheek, "Was there a fire."

"A bonfire," John affirmed.

"A gypsy party," Arthur said, conspiratorial, something wicked in his eyes.

Tommy was the last to enter, cleaner than the rest, but not by much.

"Where have you been," she looked between the three men.

"Across town," Arthur replied. "Taking care of Solomons."

Mary's eyes immediately found Tommy, "What did you do to him, Thomas."

He matched her gaze, replying, "I didn't lay a hand on him."

"You know what I mean," Mary said, disinterested in a game of semantics, imploring. "What did you have done?"

"Ordered his warehouse burned to the ground," Tommy said, pulling out a fresh cigarette. "And his money with it."

"And his men-"

"Bloody," Arthur replied. "But alive."

"Most of them, at least," John said.

"It's done," Tommy said, preparing a match. "Alfie will leave Birmingham before the week is through."

Mary looked at him, ruthless in his fury, equally cutting in his mercy. He'd destroyed Solomons' every means of living, without even taking his life. 

"Are you happy, Thomas."

He paused, eyes flicking upwards, "Happy."

"You got what you wanted," she said, mocking, arms spread. "You're the last man standing in Birmingham."

When he offered no response she took a halting step towards him, demanding softly, "Is this the moment we call you King."

The room froze and then liquified around them, as Arthur and John quickly made their way towards the door, disinterested in witnessing their brother's temper. Polly hesitated, catching Mary's eye, "You'll be alright."

"She's safe with me, Poll," Tommy cut in, annoyed, dismissing her.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Mary said, catching Polly's hand. Polly touched her cheek briefly, shooting Tommy a singular glare, before following Arthur and John out the door. The smell of smoke lingered in their wake, the silence stretched between them.

"You left Alfie alive."

His expression was guarded, "I thought you'd approve."

Something like surprise crossed her features, "You left him alive for my sake."

A muscle worked in his jaw, an indication of his slipping temper, "I took everything from him, didn't see reason to kill him after that."

"Less blood on your hands, I suppose."

He watched her, trying to parse out her expression, the genial delivery of each word.

"What do you want me to say, Mary."

"Do you think what you did today was merciful," she said, brow lifted.

"Birmingham doesn't believe in mercy," he replied grimly.

"Neither do you it seems."

"I believe in protecting what's mine."

"The Blinders," she said, pushing, pointed. "Henry."

His fury coalesced at this, "Henry died following orders."

"Henry died because he was in the wrong place, at the wrong time-"

"I ordered him to follow you back from the Garrison," Tommy snapped.

She stared at him, "You weren't at the Garrison that night."

"He's been following you every fucking day," Tommy snapped. "Since the night I threw him out."

She was quiet, remembering that night clearly. His directive, delivered drunk and angry, that she be through with Henry. The morning after, she'd mistook her empty doorstep for certain freedoms, while Tommy had her easily tailed through town.

"Following me cost him his life."

"You didn't do anything, Mary," he shook his head, lighting a cigarette. "They were my orders."

"And it was my safety you were worried about."

"Henry didn't die for you, Mary," he said, unmoved. "He's no martyr."

She reacted as though slapped, "He was a child."

"Child," he stared at her, shaking his head. "He was your age, Mary."

"And not so much younger than you," she returned.

"Young enough," he said.

"Too young to die," she returned, voice snapping.

"He accepted a job with me, knowing what it would mean."

"Listen to yourself," she said, shaking her head, exasperated. "His blood is on our hands, and you're making excuses-"

He looked away, jaw clenched to crack.

"What would you have done today if it had been me."

He stiffened, darkness gathering behind his eyes, "I would have killed all of them with my bare hands."

He was quiet, then, weary to his core. She ran both hands along her arms, heart broken at the chain of events her running to him so many months ago had set into motion.

"I will make this right."

She looked up at the sound of his voice, rough with regret.

"What could you possibly do, Thomas."

"I'll protect you, with everything I have," he continued, snapping up the distance between them to hold her face between his hands. "You're safe with me, I promise you."

She stared up at him, expression fraught, "For all your power, you haven't seen fit to make any of us immortal."

His expression deteriorated, it was the first time she'd seen him give in to his guilt with anything besides anger. His fingers pressed into her hair, holding her a fraction closer, fierce, for all of his failings, "I would die for you, Mary."

Tears pricked her eyes, she thought about Henry, her last memory of him, chasing after her in the name of the Peaky Blinders. The thought of Tommy, dead and gone, panicking her further. She pressed both hands to his chest, disallowing him to come any closer.

"I don't want any man's death on my hands," she replied, voice hoarse.

"Then take my life."

Her expression turned wary, "Tommy-"

"My life is yours," he said, blue eyes burning into hers. "Tell me what you want and I'll do it, I'll-"

"Stop it," she extended both arms, forcing him backwards, panicked by a side of him she'd yet to see. She was well versed in his red hot tempers, his cool indifference, but this man, driven desperate, was another animal entirely. He turned away from her, accepting her rebuff. His eyes squeezed shut, searching for some semblance of himself amid this unmooring.

"What have you done to me, Mary Byrne."

She was quiet, watching him slowly retreat. He stopped a few feet away, both hands braced to the back of a chair, head bowed, "You've fucked me."

She stiffened, tears rushing unbidden to her eyes at his cruel assessment of her place in his life. Without another word he snatched up his cap, leaving her alone in the middle of the room. The door slinging shut behind him brought her unsteadily to her knees. She braced her back to the side of the couch, eyes squeezed shut against further crying. She stayed that way until morning, knees pulled up to her chest, forehead to her bent legs.


	14. Chapter 14

A week later she took up work at with a local seamstress. The shop was Polly's suggestion, when Mary expressed wanting work elsewhere. The owner didn't recognize her as a Shelby possession, barely looked at her face at all. Too busy watching her guide a needle through a scrap of cloth, gauging her quickness, the efficiency of her fingers. Mary offered to work hours outside of her regular shifts at the Shelby office, claiming children at home as the reason for her odd availability. The woman at the counter waved her off, grateful for the help. She was to return the following afternoon for her first shift.

When it came time to transition from the Shelby office to the seamstress' shop the following day, she pulled Polly aside.

"You'll be late," Polly said, checking the time.

When Mary didn't respond right away, she added quietly, "The streets are safe, now," eyes lingered on the bruises darkening Mary's fair skin. "Solomons has been taken care of."

"I'm not worried about that," Mary said, shaking her head.

"What is it, then."

"Tommy," she said quietly. "What he'll say when he finds out."

"You'll tell him what you told me," Polly replied. "That you're interested in work outside of his dealings."

"And you expect him to understand."

Polly paused, then, "I expect he'll have an opinion." 

Mary released a pent up breath, "He won't understand."

Polly was quiet, watching warring emotions flicker through Mary's dark eyes. Knowing that Mary and Tommy were both fighting losing battles against their baser feelings. She hoped, having Mary begin to unravel herself from Shelby affairs would motivate Tommy into action.

"Go," Polly said, eyes on the door. "You can't control what he'll do when he finds out."

"No," Mary said, slowly reconciling that fact. "No, I can't."

Polly watched her leave, knowing full well Tommy wouldn't be long to follow. 

It wasn't a half hour later, that Finn burst into the office. Polly schooled her features impassive, well aware of what was coming.

"Where's Tommy."

"In his office," John said, looking Finn over. "What's the matter with you."

"It's Mary."

Tommy was in the doorway almost immediately, "What is it."

"I followed her," Finn said. "She didn't go home, Tom."

"What do you mean she didn't go home," John demanded. "Where did she go."

"To work," Finn blurted.

Tommy's brow shot up, "Work."

"At the seamstress shop near the wharf."

"Work," Tommy repeated, incredulous.

"She's perfectly safe, Tom."

He rounded on Polly, frightening in his fury, "You knew, Poll."

Polly returned his glare, chin angled, "I suggested the shop when she told me she was looking for work."

"Christ-"

"You can't keep her under your thumb forever," she said.

"She works for me," he snarled.

"I think it's time she worked elsewhere."

"Fuck what you think," he said, jabbing a finger in her direction. "Fuck you getting involved, fuck-"

"What're you upset about," Polly demanded, interrupting him. "That she's found work without you, or that you may be losing her."

"I don't intend to lose a fucking thing," he snapped. He slammed out of the house, shutting the door hard enough to rattle the windows.

* * *

She was an hour into her first shift when she saw a familiar Model-T Ford pull up outside. She refused to cower, remaining at the counter, head bent over needlework that was due to be finished that day. Tommy came into the shop, levelling her with a steady stare. The shop owner startled at the sight of him, "Mr. Shelby."

Tommy barely spared her a glance.

"What can I help you with-"

"You've got something of mine."

Mary's eyes flicked upward at that, an objection written in the line of her mouth.

"Mary."

"Thomas," she returned.

"Start walking," he commanded. When she didn't immediately move, he added, "Or I'll put you over my shoulder."

Mary stiffened, ignoring the owner's murmuring, as she set her sewing aside, "I'm not finished for another two hours."

"Do as he says," the woman cut in, terrorized, disinterested in being on the wrong side of one of the Shelby brothers.

"You heard her," Tommy said, inclining his head towards the door. Mary slid free of her stool, and gathered up her hat and coat. Tommy watched with ill concealed impatience as she dressed, adjusting her hat over the slowly healing cut along her hairline.

"Move," he ground out, patience all but spent. She didn't bother addressing the owner, knowing full well if she returned she'd be turned away. He lit a cigarette, needing to have something to do with his hands, "How long have you been working here."

She flushed, annoyed to have to admit the shortness of her tenure, "An hour."

His smirk was fleeting, too angry to do much besides glare.

"Polly helped you get the job," he said, a statement, more than a question.

"Yes," Mary replied.

He shook his head, "The two of you are going to be the death of me, do you know that."

"I wanted work besides bookkeeping and cleaning up your desk," she said.

"I've plenty of work," Tommy snapped. "If you'd asked me, I would-"

"I wanted work outside of the Shelby company."

They stared at one another, Tommy eventually broke the silence, "Is that why you didn't ask."

"No," she replied. "I didn't ask, because I knew what you'd say."

"Thinking you won't get the answer you want to hear, isn't an excuse for going behind my back."

"You're pigheaded, Thomas Shelby," she snapped. "And I'm tired of arguing with you."

His brow shot up, "You're tired, Mary."

She turned on her heel, prepared to march down the street. He snagged the back of her coat, stopping her short.

"Get in the car."

She remained perfectly still, mouth set in a mutinous line.

"I'm not asking," he warned, jerking her into his chest, mouth close to her ear. "I'm telling you."

She yanked free of his hold, climbing into the car without another word. When she moved to close the door, he blocked the motion despite her protests. He climbed in after her, forcing her backwards onto the driver's side.

"Drive," he commanded, pressing her hands to the wheel.

"Drive," she repeated, surprised.

"It's the only way I'll keep you from running out on me," he replied, angry, lighting another cigarette. "Drive us home, Mary."

She complied, wordless, it had been two years since she'd driven at all. She maneuvered the streets slowly, fingers tight to the wheel, grateful for something else to focus on besides Tommy. When they pulled up to her home, it was nearly dark, the street quieting around them. Tommy climbed out of the car, slamming the door, waiting for her as she rounded the hood.

"Take me inside, Mary," he said, tone brooking no argument. "We have things to discuss."

She complied, certain he'd hold the conversation in the middle of the street if she denied him entry. He took a seat at her kitchen table, removing his cap and overcoat, expression unreadable as she lighted the room around them. When he removed his jacket, she understood their conversation wasn't meant to be short. Left in a dark vest and white collared shirt, he undid the top buttons, revealing the base of his throat.

"What do I need to do to stop you running off," Tommy asked quietly.

She paused at his question, seeking his gaze, "I wasn't running."

"I'm not Ben," he said. "I'm not a man you need to fear."

She frowned, "I'm not afraid of you, Tommy."

His smirk was humorless, "But you won't talk to me."

"You're stubborn," she replied. "And I knew you wouldn't understand my wanting work anywhere but with you."

"No," he agreed. "I don't understand it."

She took a steadying breath, unsure of how to make him see, struggling with how much of herself to reveal, "This year has been-"

She broke off, searching for the right word, the right way to encapsulate their time together. The truth was he terrified her, more than Ben, more than any person she'd ever met. He wasn't the kind of man she expected to hold any sway over her or her heart, but he'd seen fit to change that. In wanting work outside of the Shelby company, she was hoping to undo some of that damage.

"Different," she finally offered, a safe middling ground. "Sometimes difficult."

"What happened with Alfie's boys won't happen again," he said, voice carefully controlled. He attributed her wanting work, wanting to be away from him, to the violence she'd experienced in Alfie Solomons' name. A lack of faith in his ability to shelter her from harm. He worked against the immediate anger he felt at this, continuing, "I promised you that once already, but I'll make that promise again."

"I don't need you to-"

His expression hardened a fraction, "Then what do you need, Mary."

She released a breath, shaking her head, "I can't be your secretary forever, Tommy."

"Let me make you something else."

She retreated, dark eyes guarded, "I won't be your whore, either."

"How about my wife."

She was cut entirely from stone, expression unreadable. Her conversation with Polly not so long ago rising to mind.

"It's about time I settle down."

"Time," she said around a short laughing, unable to stop herself. "That's your proposal, it's about time-"

"You've made it clear you won't fuck me," he replied. "Not like this."

Her expression was cutting, "There's no guarantee I'd fuck you if we were married."

"I'd be well past asking by that point."

She drew herself up a fraction straighter, holding his unflinching gaze, "You're not that kind of man."

He studied her, face built from fine lines, neatly arranged to hide whatever he was thinking. Finally, he returned, "Who are you to say what a man is capable of."

"I've tested your temper enough times to know your measure."

He released a pent up breath, resigned, they could agree on one thing at least.

"I mean it," he said. "About a wedding."

She searched his expression, "What reason could the king of Birmingham have to marry me."

"I want you," he said, ignoring her barb. "I have since I first laid eyes on you in the street outside Alfie's warehouse."

She shook her head, "Wanting me, and wanting me to be your wife are two different things, Tommy."

"Are they," he said, brow lifted. "I imagine if I want you today, I'll want you tomorrow, and next week, next month-"

"And what about next year," she cut him off, disinterested in semantics. "Five years."

He made a slow inspection of her, from head to toe, gaze lingering briefly on her mouth, "Yes."

"You're a man who doesn't believe in love."

"You're wrong," he said, cigarette glowing against his deep inhalation. "I thought I'd learned to live without it."

She was quiet, their conversation at the Garrison cresting over her.

"Which I've been told," he continued, mirroring her thoughts. "Is no way to live at all."

"You love me."

"I could," he said, electric eyes holding hers, burning with unholy promise, the promise of a life divergent from all of her childhood imagining.

"You could," she mimed, expression unreadable, understanding implicitly that he wasn't ready to say the words.

"Not the proposal you imagined," he said, rueful, well aware of what he was offering her, imperfect, and clumsily delivered. It had taken him weeks to build up the words to tell her what he wanted, and more after that to allow himself to say it. Polly had been right all along, though he'd be damned if he admitted it out loud any time soon.

"But honest," she offered, generously.

He pointed a finger at her, "I'll never lie to you, Mary, and I'll protect you with my life."

"Another proposition, Tommy" she said quietly, sinking into the chair opposite his.

"A vow," he corrected, matching her tone. "To honor and cherish you."

She offered a wan smile, shaking her head, "I want to marry for love."

"If you need me to say the words, I'll say them."

"I want a man who means them."

He paused, then, "You'd have me wait."

"Until you love me," she affirmed. "Until you know for sure."

"I know what I want, Mary."

"Then give me what I want."

He expelled a breath, considering her, this unexpected match, hard pressed to deny he'd wait if it meant having her. Also well aware of the fact that she had the power, through all of this, to deny him. The thought of her leaving was unmanageable, he pushed the feeling aside, unwilling to face that potential future.

"I could say the words tomorrow."

She swallowed a smile, his persistence was admirable, "And I'd have no doubt that you were lying."

"A breach of vows," he murmured, beaten.

"A serious one," she agreed.

"Would you deny me what I want in the meantime."

Her blood ran red hot at his question, the desire lighting his eyes.

"Yes," she said, barely meaning it. He nodded, easing back against the chair, accepting her rebuff with no further comment.

"You're not to look for work outside the Shelby company."

"Fine," she nodded.

"And you'll spend your evenings with me."

This took her by surprise.

"I'll walk you home each night, for all of Birmingham to see," he continued. "Modesty intact until you're mine."

"Anything else," she said, hands stacked primly in her lap, the picture of a lady. Not bothering to note, there was no guarantee, come love, or not, that she'd ever be his.

"You'll kiss me," he said.

"Kiss you," she faltered. "That's-"

"Improper," he said, eyes flashing.

"Unnecessary."

"If you endeavor to make me fall in love with you, Ms. Byrne," he said, seriousness coloring his tone, while his eyes remained playful. "I'll need your smart mouth to do more than argue with me."

She blushed to the roots of her hair, standing to make tea, unable to look at him a moment longer.

"Do we have a deal," he asked mildly. 

She finished setting the kettle over flame, snatching a steadying breath before turning to face him, "We do, Mr. Shelby."

He stood, spitting into his palm before extending it between them. She mirrored the motion, sealing her fate. He tugged her easily into his chest, opposite hand smoothing curls from her forehead, "Kiss me goodnight, Mary."

She hesitated, rendered immobile beneath the weight of his stare. Disbelieving how this day had turned out, uncertain if she was better or worse for it.

"Come on," he roused, voice reduced to gravel in his wanting. "Show me what I'll be missing until the morning."

Before she could overthink it, she angled her chin, pressing a lingering kiss to his mouth. His groan was instantaneous, desire unfurled at the base of her belly, flooding her with warmth. She leaned back, a little breathless, encouraged to see he was in no better shape. It was the most vulnerable she'd seen him, cheeks holding a hint of color, pupils dilated. She understood, then, why he was slow to love again. It was the loving that made him most human.

He dressed, jacket and then overcoat, and finally his peaked cap. Plugging his mouth with a cigarette he faced her, "Until tomorrow, Mary."

"Tomorrow, Tommy."

He nodded, taking one last long look at her, before striding out the door.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been reading, sending kudos and commenting :) Your generosity through this process of writing, panicking about what I've written, and eventually releasing updates, has been very much appreciated! 
> 
> More, more, more to come! Hoping to update shortly :)

Polly had been in the Shelby office for an hour, impatiently waiting for Mary or Tommy to arrive. Cups of tea had gone cold twice over, forgotten as she stood by the windows, eyes on the street. When she caught sight of Mary hurrying up the street, she parked herself behind a desk, smoothing her expression placid.

Mary entered, halfway out of her hat and coat, late by her own standards.

"Morning, Polly."

"Mary," she nodded, tea to her lips, biting back a curse when she tasted the cooled liquid against her lips. She abandoned the cup, striking a match to light a clove cigarette instead, inhaling.

"Has Tommy been in yet?"

Polly shook her head, "Not yet."

Mary poured herself a cup of tea.

"Was he out late last night," Polly asked, watching her like a hawk. Mary blushed at her question, sitting down across from the older woman.

"He was with me," Mary replied. "He dropped me at home, and came in for tea."

"Tea," Polly repeated, skeptical.

"I'm finished at the seamstress," she said.

"There's other places-"

"No," Mary interrupted. "I promised Tommy, no more work outside the Shelby company."

Polly lifted her brow, "And that's what you want."

"He asked me to marry him," Mary blurted.

Polly stared at her, fighting a smile at Mary's obvious panic.

"But he doesn't love me," she shook her head.

"He told you that," Polly said, expression turned serious.

"He couldn't say the words," Mary replied.

"That's different then not loving you, Mary."

"Is it," she said, brow knit. "It feels like the same thing."

"Is that what you wanted," Polly said carefully. "For him to say those words."

"I didn't know it was," she replied quietly. "Until he couldn't give it to me."

Polly released a sigh, sympathetic, "Life is funny that way."

"What kind of man puts the proposal before a declaration of love."

"A man who knows what he wants."

She startled at the sound of Tommy's voice at her back. Polly shot him a withering look, as he shut the door behind him, "Eavesdropping, Tom."

"It's my office," he returned, unfazed, crossing the floor as he removed his cap. Mary's cheeks were stained red, she didn't dare meet his eyes. He pressed a finger beneath her chin, forcing her attention, "Mary."

"Morning, Tommy."

He hovered above her, expression expectant.

"A deal's a deal, sweetheart," he murmured.

She caught his meaning, after a moment's hesitation, she pressed a brief kiss to his lips. His fingers scaled the line of her jaw, stopping at the nape of her neck to prolong the contact. When he finally lifted his head she was bright eyed but embarrassed.

"Morning," he returned with a grin. Mary offered a murmured reply, still blushing to the roots of her hair. He straightened, nodding at Polly, and then disappeared inside his office. Polly stared after him, hard pressed to remember the last time she'd seen him smile like that. Mary gathered up her tea and left before Polly could offer further commentary.

Midafternoon Tommy knocked on the door of Mary's office, shoulder leaned against the door frame, "We have a meeting."

She looked up, confused, "What meeting."

He was wearing his overcoat and cap, she could smell the smoke of his last cigarette from across the room.

"I need to see Charlie about the horse."

Her brow lifted slightly, "And you need me."

"Thought you'd like the walk."

She shot him an amused look, "And here I thought you just wanted my company."

Tommy inclined his head towards her coat, hung on the rack at the corner of the room, "Come on, Ms. Byrne."

She rose, pulling her coat off the hook, she had it buttoned nearly to her chin when she reached him. He stayed where he was, hands in his pockets, studying the delicate features of her face. 

His expression was reverent, "Have I told you you're beautiful, Mary."

"Trouble," she replied. "But no, not beautiful, Tommy."

"An oversight on my part," he said, smoke roughened voice pitched low. Her body reacted, she felt the steady uptick of her pulse.

"Easily mended," she replied lightly.

"I have months to make up for," he said, shaking his head.

"It's good you've begun, then."

He nodded, crystalline eyes simmering, "We've only just begun, Mary."

She felt desire uncurl at the base of her belly, warming her, melting her resolve to somehow resist this man.

"Come on," he said, hands removed from his pockets to straighten the collar of her jacket. "Charlie's waiting."

It was quiet by the docks, an off delivery day, Charlie was halfway through a cigarette when they arrived. At the sight of Tommy he stood, attention buzzing to his and Mary's interlocked hands.

"Tommy."

"Charlie," Tommy said, expelling smoke. "I don't think you've met my secretary."

She made a noise of discontent at his introduction.

"Mary Byrne," Tommy said, ignoring her sidelong look. "We're here to see the horse."

Charlie nodded, leading the way. The horse was kept in a spacious paddock, freshly groomed, obsidian eyes fringed with dark lashes. Tommy lifted one hand to stroke the horse's neck, murmuring softly. Mary came to stand beside him, running her fingers gently down the horse's velvet nose. 

"He's beautiful."

"He stands to make us a lot of money," Tommy said.

"And what of Billy Kimber."

Tommy's mouth tipped at the corners, "He stands to make us a lot of money."

Mary accepted his diversion, asking, "What's his name."

"Monaghan Boy."

"Little hills," she said absently, recognizing the Irish origins, _Muineachán._

"He's won once already," Tommy said.

"I remember," she replied. They'd argued over how best to bring money into Birmingham, little had she known this doe eyed creature had been at the epicenter of it all. True to his word, Tommy had brought a portion of money back to the men whose wages had been slashed, and a sliver of hope. "When will he race again."

"Not for another week," Tommy replied.

"Will you go to the races," she asked.

Tommy nodded, lighting a cigarette.

"I have a meeting with Billy Kimber."

Mary tipped her head to one side, "He knows you're coming."

Tommy was quiet, expelling smoke, then, "He will when I get there."

"He's not a man to make an enemy out of, Tommy."

"My hope is he's heard the same about me," Tommy replied, voice quieting.

Her brow lifted, "And if he hasn't."

"I'll be the one to tell him."

She fell silent, leaning her head briefly to the horse's soft forehead. Tommy extended his hand, she accepted, sealing her palm to his. Charlie waved them off, seated on an overturned crate.

They walked along the waterline, watching the sky turn dark with twilight. The orangey sunset punctuated by smoke from the factories. They stopped not far from Watery Lane, before the sky was made invisible by brick and mortar. The canal still visible, water spread out like a sparkling carpet beyond the cobbled street. He lit a cigarette as they stood shoulder to shoulder, just close enough to touch.

"Do you regret it," he asked quietly.

She frowned at his question, "Regret what, Tommy."

"Coming to me after Alfie went under," he said, releasing smoke.

"No," she replied honestly. "I don't."

"This life isn't easy, Mary."

She turned, studying his profile. Understanding he was wrestling with his proposal, the path he'd placed her on. Before she could reply, he continued, "It can be dangerous, and the choices I have to make aren't so black and white."

She took the cigarette from him, quiet as she inhaled, understanding he had more to say. He took her face between his hands, seriousness coloring his tone, "I'm not a good man."

She frowned at this, cigarette dropped to the stones beneath them so her fingers could circle his wrists, linking them, "You're not so black and white, Tommy." 

He stared at her, expression unreadable, offering, "You're trouble, Mary Byrne."

"The right kind, I'd like to think."

"You're something," he agreed, grinning when she made a face of discontent.

"Something," she repeated, returning his smile.

"I'd like you to be mine," he said.

"So you've told me."

"You're teaching me the meaning of patience," he said, wry.

"All in the name of bettering your good name."

He released her face, arm circling her back.

"This business won't change," he said after a pause. "My business, I mean."

"That doesn't mean you can't," she said, cheek to his shoulder.

"No," he said, halfway to believing her. "No, it doesn't."

They were quiet for a while, standing side by side, lost in thoughts of one another. The sun finally lowered to nothing, laying Birmingham in sooty darkness. Tommy pulled her a fraction closer, lips close to her temple to say, "I'll ask you to be patient with me, Mary."

She lifted a hand to his chest, slipping it beneath the bulk of his overcoat, feeling his heartbeat beneath her palm.

"It's not the loving I'm afraid of," he continued, quiet, as though relaying a secret. "It's the thought of losing you."

"I'm not so easy to be rid of, Mr. Shelby," she replied easily.

He unwound his arm to lift her hand, lips pressed to her knuckles, blue eyes bright despite the gloom. She touched his cheek when he released her, beginning to believe that he meant to love her, despite his misgivings, the years spent hardening his heart. His promise to be truthful, of protection and cherishing, glowing like hot iron, warming her, scaring the hell out of her.

"Tea, Mary," he said, brow lifted, mischief lacing his tone.

She regarded him a moment, enchanted, lulled, nearly lost. In the space of her silence he stepped a fraction closer, tilting her chin, voice reduced to wanting, "Or was there something else you'd rather do."

Her blush was hot enough to burn, "Tea, Tommy."

He gave in to his smirk, nodding, "Take me home, Mary."

She hooked her arm through his, hand pressed to the crook of his elbow, as they made their way through Birmingham.


	16. Chapter 16

Weeks passed without incident. Mary spent her evenings with Tommy, while her days at the Shelby office were punctuated by probing questions from Polly, and gentle chiding from Arthur and John about their brother's reputation. Tommy immersed himself in knowing Mary better, sussing out the finer details of her life, revealing parts of himself in the process. He learned how she'd lost her parents, inheriting little money after their death, and how the necessity to work brought her to Alfie's doorstop. Without siblings, or family aside, she'd lived quietly for two years as Alfie's bookkeeper, managing his front of house funds, safely away from his illegal business dealings.

At the races, Monaghan Boy brought home another victory for the Shelby's, and with it, Billy Kimber. He arrived at the Garrison one afternoon, demanding to see any man named Shelby. He was barely won over by Tommy's civility, to the visible dismay of Arthur and John. Polly and Mary were at the office when word reached them.

Polly made a noise of discontent, "This is what he gets for fixing races without the man's permission."

Mary offered a wry smile, "I don't think I've seen Tommy ask for anyone's permission to do anything."

Polly shot her a look, "Besides you, you mean."

Her blush was instantaneous, she offered no further reply, out maneuvered. When Tommy arrived, Arthur and John at his back, Mary came to stand in the doorway of her office. She searched his expression, trying to gauge his mood after Kimber's interruption.

"Well," Polly said, standing, clove cigarette in hand.

"He's considering our offer."

"And what offer is that."

"Protection from the Lee boys," Tommy replied, shedding his overcoat. The Lee's were another Birmingham gypsy family, often at odds with the Shelby boys, over one insult or another. "His bookies can't get through a race without their pockets slashed."

"You're protecting him, now," Mary said, frowning.

"For now," Tommy nodded.

"More like licking his bloody boots," John muttered, pulling off his cap.

"It'll be worth it," Tommy replied, unmoved, lighting a fresh cigarette. "I've cut a deal with Inspector Campbell."

"What kind," Arthur said.

"He's to look the other way while we take over the races and remove Kimber."

Polly's brow lifted, "What's he want in exchange."

"Guns have gone missing in transit," Tommy said. "Ammunition and rifles with them."

"What's that have to do with us," John demanded.

"He wants our help retrieving them," Tommy replied.

"We're not a fucking detective service," John scowled, ignoring Arthur's warning noise of discontent. Mary had noticed, with some amusement, John was least afraid of Tommy's wrath. Born from blind ego or being the youngest of three boys, she wasn't willing to wager.

"No," Tommy agreed. "But this will buy us time with Kimber."

"You seem to have this all figured out," John said, spoiling for a fight. Tommy was quiet, ignoring the comment as he walked towards Mary. He palmed the back of her head, mindful of the complete quiet at his back, the attention they were drawing.

"Ms. Byrne," he said softly. His family continued to behave spell bound at the sight of him softening in his affection.

"Tommy," she murmured.

"A word."

She eased out of his gentle hold, and he stepped into her office, closing the door at his back.

She sank into the chair behind her desk, watching him, "Well."

"I'll need to go to the races in Cheltenham," Tommy said.

"Are you asking me to go with you."

"No," he shook his head, standing on the opposite side of her desk, lighting a cigarette. "I don't want you near Kimber."

"Then what is it."

"You understand why I intend to take over Kimber's business at the races," he asked, expression serious.

"Money," she replied easily.

"Removing Kimber would open up the legal tracks," he said, watching the slow undoing of her expression.

"Killing him, you mean," she said, disappointed.

Tommy nodded evenly, "If that's what it takes."

"Is there no compromise you could make," she said. "No deal-"

"I've offered him our services," Tommy said.

"You're tricking him into believing you're on his side," she shook her head. "That's a compromise, Tommy."

"Aren't we."

She made an exasperated noise, "For now maybe, but how much longer."

"I told you," he said. "As long as it takes."

"You're willing to legitimize the Shelby business," she said. "By taking another man's livelihood, even his life-"

"I'll do what has to be done, yes."

She released a sigh, "What do you want me to say, Thomas."

"That the ends justify my means."

"I can't speak to how this will end," she replied.

He searched her expression, "Do you trust me."

"I want to."

"Good," he replied, something like relief coloring his tone.

"Tommy-"

"I need to talk to Arthur about Cheltenham," he said, coming around the corner of her desk to press a kiss to her forehead. A move she chose to believe wasn't meant to be as patronizing as it felt. "I'll see you tonight."

She nodded, eyes returning to the stacks of paperwork on her desktop, mind still buzzing between Tommy and Kimber.

* * *

Tommy returned to his own office to find Polly waiting, cigarette halfway to ash, the room smelling faintly of clove.

"Poll," he said, standing along the wall.

"What're you not telling us about those guns, Tom."

He paused to lit a cigarette.

"I saw an opportunity, and I took it," he said, exhaling smoke.

Polly searched his expression. "Do you know where they are."

"I have an idea," he replied vaguely.

"And how long do you think Campbell will bide his time waiting for you to turn them over," Polly demanded.

"As long as necessary," Tommy replied, disinterested in any lecture she might make. Knowing full well he had his hands full trying to make Mary understand his plans for Kimber and the races.

* * *

His gamble at Cheltenham, approaching Kimber unannounced, with the Lees bested and the money they'd stolen in hand, paid off. Kimber hired the Blinders to run interference against the Lee boys for the foreseeable future. He met Arthur and John at the Garrison that afternoon, whiskey waiting for them.

Arthur clapped his shoulder, "Well done, brother."

Harry poured their drinks, leaving the bottle between them.

John stood, pulling their attention, "There's something I need to say."

"Well," Arthur said, whiskey barely removed from his lips.

"I'm planning to get married."

Tommy was expressionless, waiting.

"The girls need a mother," John continued. "I can't go on this way, with no help, no-"

"Who," Tommy cut in, understanding his deference was a diversionary tactic.

"Lizzie."

He was met with absolute silence.

"Lizzie," Arthur finally repeated, incredulous. Of all the women in Birmingham, he hadn't expected John to name this one. "Lizzie Stark-"

"You said you wanted a wife, John," Tommy said. "Lizzie's a whore-"

John slammed both hands to the table top, "I'm not looking for your permission."

"She's not the one, John," Tommy shook his head. "She's not for you."

"I'm not a fucking child-"

Arthur broke in, "John boy, she's-"

"I don't want to hear that word again," he interrupted, eyes blazing between Tommy and Arthur.

"Then don't bring her name up," Tommy suggested easily.

"She's to be my wife," he returned, savage. "You'll get used to it."

His warning was met with complete silence. Eventually he finished the dredges of his whiskey and slammed out of the Garrison.

"That's trouble," Arthur said grimly.

"I'll handle it," Tommy replied, dosing his cigarette.

"How."

He offered no reply, he didn't yet have an answer to Arthur's question. Whiskey done, they left the Garrison. They were nearly home when they were intercepted by Polly, barely into her hat and coat.

"Poll-"

"I was coming to find you."

"What's the matter."

"We've been robbed."

"Robbed," Arthur demanded, pressing past her, half running the rest of the street. Tommy entered the office close behind, expression hardening at the sight of the mess.

"The Lee boys no doubt," Polly said, depositing her coat on the nearest chair.

"Where's Mary," Tommy said.

"I sent her home as soon as I saw what had happened," Polly replied.

John scrubbed a hand over his face, "Jesus, what a mess-"

Tommy turned, lifting a pair of black wire cutters into sight, "They left these."

Polly frowned, "Wire cutters, why would they leave those."

"Nobody move," Arthur broke in, voice pitched low, arms outstretched. The room dimmed around them, Tommy looked more resigned, than afraid. 

John snapped up Polly's arm when she took a step, "Don't, Poll-"

"What's going on," she demanded, staring between the three brothers, patience spent.

"If we gave up ground to the Germans," Tommy said. "They'd leave behind booby traps."

Polly stared at him, "What are we looking for, Tom."

"Wires," Arthur replied, grimly.

"A hand grenade," John said, pivoting slowly, hand freed from Polly's arm as he looked around the room.

Arthur took a cautionary step, "Don't touch any chairs, don't open any drawers-"

Tommy shook his head, "If it were here, it would have blown."

"Then where is it."

"It's surely meant for me," Tommy said, scowling, thinking. "Where would they put it."

"Tom-"

Polly took a panicked step towards him, "You don't think Mary's in-"

He was in motion before she could finish her thought, knowing full well if a grenade had been planted, it would be at her doorstep. He tore out of the office, breaking into a dead run. She was some five paces from her door when he rounded the final street corner, shouting her name. Arthur close behind, yelling for her to stop walking.

She stopped short, frightened, "What's wrong, what's happened-"

Tommy reached her, both hands running over her hair, cupping her face, grateful they'd made it in time.

"I want you to go back to the office," he said.

"Tell me what's wrong, first."

"Come on, sweet Mary," Arthur said, hand extended. John had just rounded the bend, winded, cheeks red.

"She's alright," he said at the sight of Mary, more to himself than anyone else, both hands braced to his knees, relief palpable.

"Tommy-"

"The Lee boys were the ones who ransacked the office," he said, holding her face between his hands. "We think they may have left something here for me."

She frowned, searching his expression, "A package."

"Something like that," Tommy nodded.

"John will walk you back to Polly," Arthur said. "We'll follow you."

"What kind of package," she said, refusing to be dismissed so easily.

"An explosive," he said evenly, inflection unchanged, impenetrable.

Her eyes widened, despite his gentle delivery, "What do you mean to do."

"Get rid of it."

"The police should-"

"No cops," Tommy shook his head. "This is our business, and we'll attend to it."

He motioned John forward, disinterested in an audience as he tried to locate the grenade. Mary pulled out of his grip, side stepping John's outstretched hand in the process, "You're telling me you know how to diffuse a bomb."

"No," Tommy replied.

"Then what do you intend to do."

"Find it," he said.

"And then," she pressed, brow lifted, incredulous in the face of his utter calm.

"No one will be hurt, Mary," he said. "I promise."

"Thomas-"

"Hand me your keys," he commanded quietly. She hesitated, then did as he asked, knowing he'd have little trouble taking them himself. "Now," he continued. "I need you to go with John."

John took his cue, catching Mary's arm, herding her down the street as Tommy and Arthur set their sights on her house.

"You think the wire's hooked to the door handle," Arthur said.

"If I had to wager a guess," Tommy nodded. "That's where it'll be."

"We'll only have a few seconds once the door is opened."

"You look right," Tommy said, hooking his gaze. "I'll look left."

Arthur made disagreeable noise, following Tommy to Mary's doorstep. The key pad had been badly scratched, further evidence of tampering, of unwanted guests. Tommy swallowed his rage, attending to the task at hand.

"If neither of us see anything," Tommy said, key poised at the entrance. "Duck."

Arthur adjusted his cap, muttering something unintelligible. Tommy inserted the key, unlocking and opening the door in one swift motion. They filled the doorway, eyes on either side of the floor, Tommy lunged, the grenade in hand.

"Clear-"

The street was mostly empty, he threw the weapon against the far sidewalk, it clattered against the brick wall and exploded with a bang. Arthur hooked Tommy by the neck, muttering, "You owe me, brother."

Tommy pushed out of his grip, unsurprised to see Mary at the corner of the street, expression terrorized.


	17. Chapter 17

She was frozen to the cobblestones, listening to John grouse that she'd broken his ribs. After the explosion, the booming sound, she'd driven her elbow into John's side and squirmed out of his grip. Running back the way they'd come, she'd expected an empty street, a ruined building. Instead of carnage, she was greeted with smoke and the sight of Tommy and Arthur unharmed.

"Christ, Poll will kill him for this," John shook his head. "Throwing a grenade into the street-"

Mary ignored him, taking one step and then another as Tommy mirrored the motion, meeting her halfway. He yanked her into his arms, one hand to the back of her head. His mouth was close to her ear, "You're safe, Mary."

"And you, Tommy," she said quietly.

"Yes," he lied easily.

She closed her eyes, holding him a fraction tighter.

"Polly will be looking for you," Arthur said, eyes on Mary.

"He's right," Tommy said, slowly disengaging, picking up her hand in the process. They walked back to the office in silence.

Polly was outside, waiting, expression turning fierce when she caught sight of Mary. She met Tommy's gaze squarely, issuing a singular command, "You'll sort out this business with the Lee boys, before anyone is hurt."

Tommy's expression was grim, mouth set in a thin line.

"I've cleaned up most of the mess," she said, indicating the house at her back. "But the money, Tom-"

"I'll deal with it."

"How."

He shot her a scorching look, "I said, I'll deal with it."

Polly was quiet, disinterested in being dismissed twice.

"Mary," he said, pulling her attention. "You'll stay here with Polly tonight."

She nodded, far from arguing his decision, the thought of sleeping in an empty home recently rigged to explode held no interest.

"Count up the losses," Tommy said, eyes on Arthur and John. "I'll be in my office."

He picked up Mary's arm, guiding her ahead. Shutting the door behind them, he removed his cap, expression unreadable.

"Tommy."

"Whiskey, Mary."

When she moved towards the bar cart, he stopped her, "It wasn't an order, I'm asking you."

She nodded immediately, watching as he poured two heaping glasses. He handed her one, expression drawn, and she sat down in the chair beside his desk.

"This is about your agreement with Kimber," she said around a healthy sip.

"Yes," he said, half of his whiskey already disappeared.

"What will you do."

"Strike back," he replied. "And where they failed, I won't."

She was quiet, steadily drinking her whiskey. The silence stretched on and on. He looked at her, finally demanding, "What's on your mind."

Her expression was a twist of wry and resigned, "It's possible you're not the last man standing in Birmingham, after all, Tommy."

"Christ-"

He polished off his glass and poured another, shooting it back in full.

"First Alfie," she said. "Now this-"

"I promised to protect you, and I meant it."

"It's not that," she shook her head.

"Then what is it," he said, eyes narrowed a fraction.

She took a steadying breath, then, "Is revenge the only option, Tommy."

He stared at her, struck totally silent by her question.

"Violence will almost always be met with violence in this town," she continued. "There are other ways-"

"Tell me," he said, trying and failing to keep the snap out of his voice. "Tell me another way, Mary."

The line of her shoulders straightened at his tone, "Common ground, Thomas."

His smirk was humorless, "Explosives."

"War," she said. "Family-"

He turned away, hands dug into his pockets.

"You're not so different-"

His expression darkened, "Careful, Mary."

"If you respond with killing, they'll respond in kind," she said.

"What would you have me do," he demanded, voice pitched low, barely above a growl. He remembered clearly, a similar conversation after her abuse at the hands of Solomons' men. "Nothing?"

"Yes."

He hurled his glass against the far wall. It exploded into a thousand startling pieces, flickering in the sunlight, studding the carpet like diamonds. She flinched at his reaction, at the absolute fury behind his eyes. She understood implicitly, he'd lose sleep over the danger he put her in, thinking about how this day could have ended. 

He faced the far wall, steadying his breathing. It wasn't often he lost control, but when he did, the resulting firework show was earth shattering. She waited, adjusted to this practice, having seen him implode only to retreat back into himself moments later.

"Don't ask me for things I can't give you, Mary," he said, a note of pleading.

"I'm asking you to do things differently than you have," she corrected coolly. "Be better than you were-"

"You could have been killed."

He sounded world weary, voice rough with emotion.

"I wasn't," she replied simply. He turned to face her, both hands falling to the arms of her chair as he knelt in front of her. His head was bowed, he'd effectively boxed her in, but his crouch relayed power to her position. It was her shadow he was cast in.

"Mary," he said quietly. "I'd give you my life, but don't ask me-"

"I'm not asking," she interrupted, touching his cheek briefly. "I'm demanding."

A smile ghosted his lips, twisted, only his crystalline eyes retained the last vestiges of fury, "Who are you to make demands of me."

"I'm to be your wife," she returned.

"A matter of debate," he said. "Last I was told."

She leaned a fraction closer, finger tips butterflying the line of his jaw, "I want a husband capable of mercy, Tommy."

"This is my fault," he said, eyes squeezed shut for a moment. "For not tossing you over my shoulder and taking you straight to the church when I had the chance."

She laughed at this, shaking her head.

His eyes flickered open, fingers roping her wrist, pressing her palm flush to his cheek, "Help me, Mary."

"I want to," she replied, ardent.

"What other way."

"I told you, Tommy," she said. "Common ground."

"Common ground," he repeated, sitting back on his heels, rubbing his forehead. "I need to think."

She bent, pressing a kiss to his cheek, "I'll help Poll."

He watched her go, mind whirring between possibilities. Debating what mercy looked like on the streets of Birmingham.

* * *

Not long after, Tommy called a family meeting, sharing plans to meet with the Lees.

"What's there to meet about," Arthur demanded.

"We'll settle this," Tommy said. "I'll see no more wire cutters."

Arthur fell silent, nodding, able to agree on one thing at least.

"We'll go over this afternoon," Tommy continued, eyes on his brothers. Turning to Polly he added, "Once we're through negotiating, you'll meet us at the Lee's camp."

Polly frowned, "Why, Tom."

"And you're to bring Mary."

"I won't bring Mary anywhere near-"

"She'll be safe," Tommy interrupted. "I wouldn't have her there if she wasn't."

"And if your negotiations fail," Polly said, brow lifted.

Tommy lit a cigarette, "We'll be home early, then."

"What exactly do you intend to say to these people, Tom."

"You'll meet us there, unless you hear otherwise," he said, ignoring her questions. "We leave in an hour, boys."

Arthur and John nodded their understanding, disappearing to round up the rest of the Blinders, as Polly left for Mary's flat.

* * *

At the appointed time, Polly and Mary waited outside the Shelby office, dressed for the outdoors, as instructed. Polly's overcoat was the color of wine, while Mary wore dove gray. Both had hats pulled over their hair, and despite the layers, were sporting pink noses and chilly fingertips.

"Did he tell you what he has planned," Polly asked, shivering against the cold air. Annoyed at being left in the dark.

Mary shook her head, "Not a word."

Polly released a breath, lighting cigarettes for both of them. Tommy's familiar car turned the corner, Arthur behind the wheel. Polly adjusted her hat, offering, "Lets see what this is about."

They climbed into the cab, all eyes on Arthur, "What's happened," Polly demanded.

"Tommy's done well," Arthur replied easily, cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

"From the smell of it," Polly said, brow lifted at the smell of whiskey. "He's done more than well."

"John's to be married."

Polly was taken aback at this, "Married."

Mary frowned, "To who-"

"A Lee girl," Arthur said. "Wild from the sounds of it, they're looking to have her settled."

"A wedding," Polly said, marveling, still in shock.

"Common ground," Mary offered quietly, expression beguiling relief, admiration.

Polly shot her a knowing look, understanding this decision was born of Mary's influence. They drove in steady silence, Arthur crooning an off key lullaby, whiskey and the long drive softening his rougher edges.

Tommy met them upon arrival, helping Polly and then Mary out of the car.

"A wedding, Tom," Polly said, looking up at him, studying his expression.

"Brilliant," Arthur said, hooking Polly by the waist. "Bloody fucking brilliant-"

Tommy ignored their stares, reaching for Mary, "Come on," he said. "Lets be done with it."

The wedding was beautiful. The bonfires casting the campsite in a fine orange glow. John's bride was revealed, doe eyed and brunette, beautiful in her gypsy wedding veil and gown. John and Esme spent the ritual dividing looks between them, unhappy to be so suddenly wed, but happy enough at the sight of one another. Mary stood with Tommy and Polly, slowly reconciling the fact that Tommy had listened to reason, devising an alternative to violence. He was capable of surprising her, even after all these months.

Bound by blood, John and Esme faced their respective clans, two having become one. Mary couldn't have imagined stranger circumstances to wed. She clapped and raised a celebratory glass with the rest, studying each face, understanding she'd been right, they weren't so very different. When threatened, these people fought for what they loved.

She stayed on the outskirts of the dancing, finding it preferable to watch, whiskey warming her. Polly checked on her, touching her cheek, "How are you holding up." 

"Fine," she said, shaking her head, disinterested in sounding ungrateful, but hard pressed to deny the complexity of their situation. "Seems strange, to be at war one day, and family the next."

Polly offered a wry smile, "From the sounds of it, this is your doing."

Mary laughed, "Is that what Tommy told you."

"He listens to you," Polly said, voice turning serious.

"He's not an unreasonable man," Mary replied.

"No," Polly said. "But it's not often he'll take advice.

"I offered a suggestion," she said. "This wedding was Tommy's idea."

"Smarter than firing back," Polly shook her head. "You'd think they'd be tired of fighting, after France."

"Seems not," Mary replied quietly.

"We could use a little peace around here," Polly said absently, sounding tired. After a few minutes she left Mary by herself, catching Arthur's arm, peppering him with questions.

It wasn't long after that Tommy appeared beside her, cigarette half smoked, "I've been looking for you."

She tipped her chin to catch his gaze, relieved to find his expression relaxed for a change.

"How's John."

Tommy exhaled, "Happy."

"He should be," she said, smiling. "His bride is beautiful."

"She'll do," he replied.

Mary rolled her eyes, "She's not a horse, Tommy."

"This is a business arrangement, Mary."

"It's a wedding."

"A happy bonus."

"This was your idea," she reminded him.

"Barely," he replied.

"A good one," she pressed, trying to suss a smile out of him.

"We'll see," Tommy replied, raising an arm to her shoulders. She leaned into his warmth, watching John and Esme dancing.

"He looks smitten."

"He looks like he's finally going to fuck someone who's not a whore."

She straightened, shooting him a withering look, "You're poor company tonight, Thomas."

He ran his knuckles gently along her cheek, by way of an apology, "It's not the wedding I'd imagined attending."

"No," she said, brow lifted, knowing full well what he meant to say.

"I was hoping it would be ours."

"Not yet," she replied lightly.

"No," he agreed. "Not yet."

They remained shoulder to shoulder, sharing cigarettes between them as the party continued around them. After a while Tommy split the silence, "You're an incredible woman, Mary Byrne."

She tipped her chin, "Am I."

"You faced violence, and chose mercy," he said. Arthur and Polly were sidling closer, bottle of whiskey in hand, seeking their company. Tommy ducked his head, mouth to her temple, "Thank you."

She met his gaze, brow knit, "For what, Tommy."

"For helping me see another way."

He pressed a brief kiss to her lips before turning to Arthur, accepting the whiskey and his arm at his shoulders. Content to spend the remainder of the night drinking down the bottle, pretending the wedding around them signaled the end of his troubles.


	18. Chapter 18

Two months after John and Esme's wedding, Tommy met with Billy Kimber. His intention was to ensure Kimber continued to have no knowledge of his peacemaking with the Lee family. The outcome was much greater than he expected. When he returned to the Shelby office, Arthur and John were sharing a bottle of whiskey. Polly was chattering absently with Mary, both leaned over a desk covered with betting books and pencils.

Arthur rapped his knuckles against the table at the sight of him, "How'd it go, Tom."

He produced a leaflet from the depths of his jacket pocket, "Our first legal pitch."

Arthur lifted his whiskey in salute, "Well done, brother."

"We have Kimber to thank for it," Tommy said, depositing the piece of paper on the table between them.

Polly moved closer, inspecting the pitch, "This is big, Tom," she said, pleased his expansion had finally paid off.

"We'll have plenty to thank Kimber for by the time this year is out," John smirked.

"Legal," Mary said, brow bobbing, grinning.

"Legal," Tommy affirmed, returning her smile.

"You'll make a legitimate company out of us yet," Polly said, pouring whiskey for the rest. Arthur downed his glass, holding it out for a refill as she made her rounds.

"To Shelby Company Limited," Tommy said, whiskey raised. The others followed suit.

"To money," Arthur chimed, cracking the lip of his glass to Tommy's.

"To getting the fuck out of Birmingham," Polly added.

John stepped forward, deadpan, "To doing the fucking, and not getting fucked-"

When Polly aimed a swat at the back of his head, he ducked, laughing.

"To honest men," Mary said, glass extended, eyes on Tommy. He met her glass with his own, miming her toast quietly, blue eyes set to smoke. She felt his stare like a physical touch, cheeks running red.

"The Garrison will likely have more whiskey than we do," Arthur said, tilting their bottle, finding it halfway to done. John hitched his overcoat over each shoulder, needing no further encouragement for a night out.

"Shall we celebrate," Polly said, eyes split between Tommy and Mary.

"Go on ahead," Tommy said, whiskey to his mouth, opposite hand slid into his pocket, the picture of innocence. Polly made no further comment, donning her coat, and following Arthur and John outside. Tommy finished his glass, eyes lifting to Mary as he asked, "Will you come home with me."

She nodded, gathering her coat, watching as he locked up for the night. They walked the short distance to his room. He lit candles as she poured more whiskey, understanding there was cause for celebration, at the Garrison or not.

"You're pleased," she said, handing him a glass.

"Very," he nodded.

"And what of Inspector Campbell," she said. "You've put him off for months now."

Tommy's mouth pulled into a thin line, "Polly's been talking."

"Just to me," Mary replied easily. "Holding onto those guns is risky, Tommy."

"We have an agreement," Tommy said, lighting a cigarette.

"And you trust him," she asked, brow lifted.

"I'm done talking business for tonight, Mary."

She sipped her whiskey, "What did you want to talk about, then."

"Us," he replied.

This brought her to an abrupt halt.

"This pitch from Kimber," he said. "It's only the beginning."

"Yes," she said carefully. "You've told me."

"The beginnings of an honest living, I mean."

"I'm happy for you, Tommy."

"I love you, Mary."

He spoke the words before she'd finished the last syllable of his name. A declaration he couldn't hold onto a moment longer. She was utterly still, staring at him, reliving the words again and again in her mind's eye.

"You could drive a man to drink," he said, beginning to smile at her shell shocked expression. "But I love you."

"You love me," she said, disbelieving, this wild man, composed of fierce lines and cigarette smoke, had made space in his heart for her.

"Yes."

She ran a hand through her unruly hair, opposite hand to her sternum.

"Say something," he said, mild enough to offset the anxiousness lighting his blue eyes.

"I lied to you."

He was motionless, waiting.

"When I told you I didn't need you," she shook her head. "I lied-"

"What are you saying," he interrupted, greedy for the words.

"I want you, too."

He nodded, "And you understand what that means."

She took a steadying breath, heart balanced on the edge of some unfathomable cliff, "It means I love you."

Surprise looked good on him, she nearly laughed out loud.

For all the times he'd imagined the words, from her to him, nothing had prepared him for the reality. He studied every inch of her, a photograph forming on the fringe of his mind, to live eternal. From the outline of her wild hair, lit by candlelight, to the tilt of her dark eyes, lifted from her smiling. The delicate connection of her collar bones, revealed by the cut of her white blouse, and her hands clasped against shaking. The woman before him, prepared to love him, was as much of a surprise today, as she had been the first day he'd met her. Wholesome and sweet, as Arthur often teased, fierce in her loyalty, and strong in her convictions. What he'd done in thirty-four years to deserve her, he'd never understand.

"Say it again," he commanded, voice rough.

"I love you, Tommy."

"Sweetheart."

She melted, pink at his endearment, "Hold me."

He complied, gathering her into his arms, mouth pressed to her curls, murmuring her name. He ran his hands along her back, fingers pressed to her shoulder blades, her ribs. She felt new under his hands. While he reveled in the feeling, the certainty, of holding what was meant to be yours.

"Tell me you'll marry me."

"Yes."

The tension released from his body, he held her a fraction tighter. She angled her mouth, lips buzzing just shy of his.

"Mary."

His voice held a note of warning, flagging the point of no return. Her arms wound around his neck, she pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He groaned, arms tightening around her back, squeezing, as though he meant to absorb her in full. He kissed her deeply, drowning.

When he pulled back, he was hoarse with wanting, "Mary."

She pressed her forehead to his, catching her breath.

"Look at me," he commanded quietly.

Her head tipped back, eyes flickered open. 

"Tell me what you want."

Her blush was gratifying, he committed her expression to heady memory.

"I'll hear you say it," he said. "Or I won't have you at all."

She wet her lips, offering, "You."

He shook his head, "Not good enough."

Her blush intensified, "I want you to make love to me."

Something like relief flashed through his light eyes. He claimed her mouth for a kiss, one hand dug into her hair, palming her scalp, murmuring, "There is a God."

He angled her backwards, towards the bed, fingers working the buttons of her blouse and skirt. By the time he laid her flat to the mattress she was in nothing but a sheer slip, lit by candlelight, glowing. She sat up as he looked her over, pressing his pants free of his hips, rolling his shirt upward, exposing him in turn. His hands found the softness of her breasts, the apex of her thighs. He touched her through the iridescent slip, the thin material offering the illusion of modesty. Her spine arced off the mattress at the feel of his hands, his mouth. He edged her towards a certain climax, before backing off, wanting to feel her body's release from the inside.

"Tommy-"

"What's wrong, love."

"I want you," she said, meaningfully. He released a hissing breath when she closed a hand around him. He roped her wrist, moving her flat to the mattress, positing himself at her entrance. 

He ran a hand over her forehead, removing curls, looking down at her, "You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

Her cheeks warmed, fingers aching towards his hips, encouraging. He lowered himself, easing into her until she was filled completely.

"More," she murmured, eyes drifting shut, head tilted back to expose the column of her throat. He complied, moving in and out of her in slow strokes, until she was writhing beneath him. He dipped his head, mouth to the pulse point along her neck, one hand palming her breast. When she came, with his name on her lips, he was close to follow, burying himself to the hilt with a groan. She was perfectly still beneath him, eyes closed, barely breathing.

"Mary," he said, fingers brushing one downy cheek. "Look at me."

Her eyes opened slowly, lashes heavy, revealing pinprick pupils.

"Did I hurt you."

She shook her head.

"Are you satisfied."

Roses bloomed in each cheek, "Yes."

He tipped onto his side, eyes closing as he gathered her against him. She pressed her cheek to his neck, palm splayed to his chest, crisp with dark hair. She traced the blunt lines of his tattoo with her finger tip.

"My love."

She warmed at his endearment, content to turn the phrase over and over in her head.

"Tommy."

"I'll love you until the day I die."

She held him a fraction tighter, believing him, for better or worse.

* * *

He woke up near dawn. Mary was on her side, head tucked carefully into the hollow between his arm and shoulder, breasts riding the architecture of his ribcage. Her hair was a riot of curls tickling his neck. The room was foggy with half realized sunlight. He studied her in the gloom. The lily pale of her skin, the figs of her cheekbones, each feature exquisitely connected. He took a measured breath, closing his eyes, disbelieving this perfect woman existed, in extension of his ribcage.

Some hours later, he awoke to an empty mattress. Surprised by how long he'd slept, he sat up, yesterday's whiskey presenting a headache behind his left eye. She was standing by the grimy window, barefoot, hair in ropes down her back.

"Mary."

She turned at the sound of his voice, rooted to the spot. He was more dangerous in sunlight, realer, somehow, than in moonlight. Her body bore the marks of his hands, his hips, his teeth, faintly branded.

"Tommy."

"You wouldn't make a man get up and get you," he said quietly, brow lifting a fraction. "Would you."

Her mouth tipped at one corner, revealing a smile. She moved closer, accepting his hand at her wrist as he guided her beside him. He positioned her flat to the mattress, rolling onto his side to face her, one hand tracing a lullaby from the line of her jaw to the column of her throat, and progressively lower.

"You love me, Tommy."

He paused, meeting her gaze, "More today than yesterday it seems," he said. "And I'd wager even more tomorrow."

She touched his cheek, pressing her forehead to the side of his neck. She could feel the steady thump of his heart against her shoulder.

"Do you regret it."

"Last night," she asked, knowing the answer before he said a word.

"Yes."

"No, Tommy," she shook her head. "I don't."

His hand slipped the line of her hip, palm to the flower at her thighs.

"You'd have me again, then, Mary."

She tipped her chin, pinning him with a serious look, "Once more before we're married."

He let out a laugh, pulling her close, miming, "Once more."


	19. Chapter 19

It was nearly nine o'clock when they made their way out of bed. They dressed in quiet, Mary's eyes trained uneasily on the floorboards. Finally, Tommy broke the quiet, "Mary," he tipped her chin with his index finger, searching her eyes. "What's the matter."

"Nothing."

"Nothing," he repeated, tone suggesting she was a liar.

"I'm late to work," she blurted, moving to stand. He pressed a steady hand to her shoulder, denying the motion.

"Talk to me, Mary."

"They'll know."

"Who," Tommy frowned, shaking his head. "Will know what."

"Your family," she continued, wearing the same clothes she'd had on the day before, hair in an unmanageable tangle. "They'll know I spent the night."

Tommy nodded, smirking faintly, "So they'll pour us both a shot of whiskey instead of tea this morning."

She blushed, "It's not meant to be everyone's business."

He shook his head, sobering, "No, but for today, we don't have much of a say."

She released a breath, far from pacified, but out of options. Lacing her black boots, she stood, watching as he adjusted his overcoat.

"Ask me where we'll live once we're married."

She startled at his question, "Birmingham, of course."

"Cheshire," he corrected easily. "In the country, away from this city."

"A country house," she said, imagining green lawns, garden flowers, clear air, far from the cityscape.

"Privacy," he said, thumb to her chin, tipping her face for a kiss.

"Peace," she offered.

"Peace and quiet," he nodded his agreement. He opened the door, motioning towards the stairs, "Let's go to work."

She led the way, into the chilly morning, cheeks stinging from the cold. Tommy lit a cigarette as they walked, expression disappeared beneath the brim of his cap, suddenly far from the man who had gently loved her the night before. She wrapped her coat tighter around her body, seeking the same disassociation, the same chameleon ability to be whatever the day called for.

The office was bustling, at the sight of them Arthur wagged his eyebrows, commenting on Tommy's healthy glow. He waved him off, slamming into his office, leaving Mary to do the same. Polly rapped on her door not long after, tea in hand, expression conspiratorial.

* * *

The following week, Tommy's best laid plans blew up in his face. Campbell managed to locate the stolen machine guns, eliminating any leverage Tommy had against him. Quickly after, Campbell sold him out to Kimber. When he called a family meeting to break the news, Polly offered a noise of discontent.

"The guns should have been gone months ago, Tom."

"What would you have me do about that now, Poll," he demanded.

She shook her head, smoking silently.

"It's likely Kimber's already on his way."

"I'll round up the boys," Arthur said, standing.

"We'll meet at the Garrison," Tommy said. "Bring all the guns you can."

John nodded, pulling his hat low as he exited the house. Tommy yanked on his overcoat, cap in hand.

"Where are you going, Tom."

"To see Mary," he replied. "And then straight to the Garrison."

Polly watched him go, praying to God he knew what he was doing. He reached Mary's flat in record time, understanding he was running on borrowed time as it was. She answered the door, tensing at his expression, "What's the matter."

He stepped forward, kissing her briefly.

"I have a meeting with Kimber," he replied, downplaying, easily.

Her brow lifted, "Here."

"At the Garrison," he replied. "But there's something I have to do first."

He reached beneath his overcoat to produce a velvety satchel from his jacket pocket. Undoing the ties, he emptied the contents into his palm. She released an unsteady breath at the sight of a gold signet ring, styled like the one on his own finger, with their initials etched eternal into the gold face.

"It's beautiful," she said, watching the metal catch the light.

"Will you wear it," he asked quietly.

"Yes."

She extended her hand, watching as he slid the ring past her knuckle, settling it at the cusp of her finger.

"I'll marry you before the month is out," he said, pulling her close. "If you'll have me."

"Yes," she said, smiling, laughing. "Yes, Tommy."

"I'll take care of Kimber," he said. "And I'll come back to you."

She nodded, arms around his waist, cheek to the shoulder of his heavy overcoat.

"Promise me something," he said quietly.

"What, Tommy."

"Wait for me."

She caught his gaze, head tilted, "I'll be here when you get back."

"Wait for me," he said, more insistent the second time around.

"Yes," she said, nodding, unsure of how to pacify him. There was something in his expression she couldn't put a name to. 

He kissed her soundly, then pressed his lips to her forehead, "My love."

He was out of reach before she could say anymore, well aware of the worry he'd seen in her dark eyes. The Garrison was empty when he arrived, he issued quick orders to Harry.

"I'll be around back," Tommy said, knowing there were guns tucked away in the cellar. He stepped out of the pub, into the alleyway around back, brought up short at the sight of Kimber, with Campbell beside him. He muttered a curse, out of options, and for the moment, out of ideas. The last thought he had, as Campbell raised his gun and snapped the trigger, was Mary's hopeful face.

* * *

It was nearly nightfall when John came to her door. He was twisting his cap between his hands, wearing an expression she hadn't seen before.

"Mary."

"I was expecting Tommy," she said.

"Polly needs you."

"What's wrong," she said. "What's happened-"

"Mary," he said, insistent. "Please, come with me."

She pressed past him, barely taking the time to snatch her coat off its customary hook. John was at her heels, hands jammed in his pockets, silent. Mary arrived at the office, dark eyes worried, cheeks pink from nearly running.

She took slow inventory of the room, noting immediately that Tommy wasn't among them, "Where is he."

Polly stayed exactly as she was, head in her hands.

Arthur motioned her closer, "Come on, sweet Mary, sit and-"

"Answer me," she said, desperate.

"Nobody's seen him," Arthur relented. "Not since he left for the Garrison."

"How," Mary said, beginning to shake. "How is that possible-"

"Sit," Polly said, finally lifting her head, expression ragged. "Sit with me."

Mary did as she was asked, sinking slowly into a chair, accepting Polly's hand into her own. She pressed it to her cheek, already wet with tears, "Where is he, Poll."

"I don't know, love," she said quietly, shaking her head. "I don't know."

Mary's shoulders depressed, Arthur laid a hand on the back of her head, crouching low to meet her gaze, "I promise you, we'll find him."

She offered no reply, mute with worry.

"Go, Arthur," Polly said, fierce. "Make good on that promise."

He straightened, replacing his cap, jaw set. John was at the door, they turned and left, silence in their wake. The two women sat, hand in hand, for the better part of the next hour. Polly ran her thumb over and over the ring Tommy had put on Mary's hand, murmuring prayers, Mary sat, motionless and quiet.

When the door opened again, Arthur was the first through, expression grim. Polly stood, hand to Mary's shoulder, commanding, "Tell us."

"He's dead, Poll."

Mary was as still as a statue, absorbing the words, untangling the desire and circumstance that had led her to this point. In all of her wild imaginings, Tommy's death hadn't been what would stand in the way of their wedding. Now it seemed, she'd been foolish to think him invincible, simply because he'd asked her not to worry.

"How," Polly demanded.

"He was shot," Arthur said.

Polly was incredulous, "Who shot him."

"Campbell by the sounds of it."

"Where is he," she said. "Where's the body."

"In custody," Arthur said, wringing his cap between his hands. "They won't release him, they're saying he shot first."

Polly stiffened at this, "Bloody bastards-"

"He asked me to wait for him."

Polly dropped her attention, searching Mary's face. She was eerily calm, cheeks drained of color, expression resigned.

"He meant to come home to you, Mary," Polly said softly.

"He loved me."

Polly closed her eyes, heart broken for hearing it.

"And now he's never coming home."

Her words were hollow, her reality slowly tilting to turmoil.

"Tommy is dead," she said, feeling the words against her tongue. It felt like choking on hard candy. "He's not coming back."

She stood, expression perfectly placid, moving away from Polly, past Arthur and John in the doorway, and walking directly to Tommy's flat. She pressed open the door, mindful of his family trailing behind, murmuring to one another, not letting her out of their sight. The door to his cramped room was locked when she tried to open it. Arthur easily moved her aside, busting the handle to allow the door to swing free. 

At the sight of his space, the sheets still wrinkled to his silhouette, she dropped to her knees. Nails dug into the rough wood planks of the floor, head bowed, despite Arthur's attempts to lift her. The quiet was broken to bits by the sound of her weeping. The noise was dim at first, barely a whimper. Before long, her body shook from it, she curled in on herself, the pain excruciating. Polly dropped beside her, gathering her to her chest, rocking her.

Arthur swiped a hand over his eyes, relieving tears, opposite hand to John's shoulder. They stayed that way, barely held together, laid into one another's arms at the threshold of Tommy's room for over an hour. Mary was inconsolable, she cried rivers, and those rivers she cried into oceans. Polly held her, understanding there was nothing to be done, nothing possibly to say.

* * *

The first month after Tommy's death was treacherous. Mary kept to herself, while Polly raged, at Arthur, at any local copper she could get her hands on. Demanding again and again to have Tommy's body released, insisting on a proper funeral, thwarted by Campbell's orders. In the end, for all of her fury and demands, her pleas fell on deaf ears.

Mary's grief was self contained. She kept her regular hours at the Shelby office, despite Polly's protests and Arthur's encouragement to stay home. At night she sat with tea, Tommy's ring either on her finger or settled on the table in front of her. She imagined the conversations that might have had. She spent hours on this wakeful dreaming, their nightly ritual came to haunt her, keeping her from sleep. She made every attempt to regret the time she'd spent with him, to no avail, no matter how hard she tried she couldn't muster anything but loss.

Two months passed, the Shelby's existed in fragments, well adjusted to Tommy calling the shots, unprepared to shoulder his burdens so suddenly. Kimber faded into the background, pacified to have severed the head of the mighty Peaky Blinders, unworried at their efforts without Tommy at the helm.

It took five months for Mary to find work outside of Birmingham, to pack her small flat and purchase a train ticket. All the while, remembering Tommy's white hot rage at the last ticket she'd purchased.

"You're leaving us," Polly said, resigned, when she broke the news of her purchased ticket.

Mary nodded, "It's time."

"He'd have wanted you to stay," Polly said, an old argument, beaten dead in the past weeks. "To work, to be with us."

"One day that may be possible," Mary replied. "But I can't keep living with his ghost, not now."

His wedding ring glowed on her left hand, Polly gripped her fingers, feeling the cool metal like a kiss.

"Promise me you'll come back."

Mary regarded her quietly, she'd come to understand, mostly in Tommy's absence that her presence replaced the daughter Polly had lost. Leaving would be hard on both of them, but it was non-negotiable for Mary. There was no living in the shadow of Tommy's life, not until she found her own purpose again.

"I promise," she said, meaning it. "I don't know when, but I promise."

"I'll take it," Polly nodded, trying to smile.

Arthur and John insisted on taking her directly to the train station, Esme squeezed alongside them in the car. Esme had slowly gained the trust of the Shelby's, in the months after her wedding to John. Though Polly continued to protest much of what came out of her mouth at their scattered family meetings. Mary liked to think, one day, Esme would become another woman to fill Polly's desire for grown daughters. But for now, they'd remain at each other's throats, negotiating the covet power endowed to Shelby women. Despite her tiring of their arguing, Mary knew it would become another memory she'd grow to miss.

The train station was bustling when they arrived, the air was cool and clear. Mary stood between them, heart aching against her decision to leave.

Arthur was gruff in his goodbye, "Sweet Mary."

"I'll come back," she said, endeavoring to repeat her promise to Polly as many times as possible.

"Maybe we'll have a change of address by then," Arthur said, eyebrows wagging, still dreaming of greener pastures.

"Write if you do," she grinned, kissing his cheek. 

John gathered her into a brotherly hug, Esme beside him, touching her cheek kindly, "We'll see you again, little sister."

She bobbed her head, throat constricted, nothing left to say. She gathered up her twin suitcases, and boarded the train, bound for a fresh start.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading & commenting, thank you for the kudos :) more to come, hopefully today!

A year had passed since Tommy's death. Mary was no closer to healing, but grateful at least, to be out of Birmingham. She'd found work at a seamstress, the shop was quaint and quiet. Frequented by people who didn't care who she was, or where she was from. Her days were spent working, in the evenings she was home alone. She wore his ring, content to belong to someone, even if he wasn't there to hold her.

To think of the possibilities of a life not lived, one intertwined with her own, was too much to bare. She resigned herself to remembering. From their first meeting outside of Alfie's warehouse, to the times, which often felt too frequent to count, that he'd saved her. Tommy had reshaped her life in ways that couldn't be undone, and from it, was forged a new woman, capable of seeing the world for what it could be, rather than what it had been. He had reaffirmed her convictions, even if he'd grayed the lines between right and wrong in the process. For this transformation, she was grateful. And above all else, she treasured their final weeks together. His gentling, the slow opening of his heart. He'd made good on his promise to love and honor, if only for a short time. 

Her life was far from full, but the pain of losing him dulled to longing as weeks passed. She desperately desired to see him again, to feel his hands on her, to hear his voice. When she dreamed of him, she awoke in tears, mind and body belatedly coming to grips with a reality without him. In her dreams he was often at his desk in the Shelby office, smoke haloed around his dark head, eyes blue enough to startle. She willed him to speak, asking again and again, often waking with the words on her lips. She wanted nothing more than to hear his voice, that familiar slash of cigarettes and whiskey, one more time.

She sent a letter to Polly after she'd settled in, some two months after her departure. Mary wasn't willing to lose ties with the Shelby family completely. A month or so later, she received a reply. She recognized the Birmingham address, ripping the envelope quickly, anticipating Polly's response, her quick wit, her words, any wisdom she may have.

At the sight of Tommy's familiar penmanship against the pages, she felt shock seep into her system. The letter fluttered to the floor, unread, as she came to grips with the possibility Thomas Shelby wasn't dead after all.

* * *

"Give her time, Tom."

Polly was across the room, smoking, watching him pace his office. Still adjusting to the sight of him, looking no worse for the wear, after his self imposed exile from Birmingham. 

Campbell's shot had barely missed its mark, puncturing his chest just left of his heart. It was Charlie who'd found him, rallied by Arthur to the Garrison. He'd removed Tommy from the street, hiding him easily amongst the Blinder's stocks at the wharf. Saved by Charlie, while proclaimed in custody of the crown and dead by Campbell's authority, Tommy spent six months hiding out in Ireland recovering, biding his time. Campbell's search had eventually stalled, having turned up countless dead ends, and when Charlie deemed it safe, Tommy was smuggled back into Birmingham on a supply barge.

The day he returned home to the Shelby office Polly's fury was other-worldly. At the sight of him, she threw a full decanter of whiskey at his head. It was Arthur, pinning her arms to her sides so Tommy could explain himself, that saved him from another untimely death. The Blinders did their best to rally at his return, despite their misgivings at his disappearing act. The automatic weapons having been lifted from Birmingham proved to be both a blessing and a curse. Since then, the police presence on Watery Lane had been minimal, but so had Blinder's ability to buy off any coppers. Despite this, within days of his return, Tommy had them well on their way undermining Kimber and Campbell's unsteady alliance.

Upon arrival, the first person Tommy asked to see was Mary.

"She's gone, Tom."

He stared at Polly as though she hadn't spoke at all, "Where's Mary."

"Gone," Polly repeated, shaking her head. "Has been for a few months now."

"Where the fuck is she," he demanded, expression deteriorating.

"Are you not listening," Polly snapped, matching his ire, equally furious. "You were dead, she-"

"She said she'd be back," Arthur broke in, an ill-fated attempt to ease the tension.

"And you let her leave," Tommy snarled, staring between them, eyes burning.

"She's a grown woman," Polly snapped. "Not a prisoner."

"Fuck-"

Tommy shot both hands through his hair, eyes squeezed shut. He stayed that way for a moment, before slamming his palms to the tabletop, prepared to upend it before John shoved him backwards.

"You let her believe you were dead," John said, scathing, angry for himself, and his family, on Mary's behalf. "You let _all_ of us think you were dead-"

"I was coming back," Tommy returned, chest heaving, choking on his regret.

"Were you," John said, sneering. "Who did you tell, besides Charlie, who was sworn to bloody secrecy-"

"Fighting isn't going to get us anywhere," Polly interrupted, understanding they had nothing to gain from Tommy's return ripping them apart. She pressed her own fury aside, cheeks still pink from shouting, but tone steadying. "Tom's right, what's done is done."

"And your home now, brother," Arthur said, aligning with Polly's strategy. "We can begin again."

"Can we," Tommy said absently, scrubbing a hand over his face. Overwhelmed in the face of defeat. He'd survived Campbell's war, but what did he have to show for it.

When Mary's first letter arrived, detailing a quiet existence, a seamstress shop, Tommy was quick to respond. In the absence of any return letter, he wrote again, and again after that. He issued a letter a week, growing increasingly frustrated.

"How much time is enough, Poll," he said, lighting a cigarette.

"It's possible she has nothing to say," Polly offered quietly.

He looked up, glaring through a screen of smoke.

Polly maintained a placid expression, "She has a right to choose, Tom."

"And me," he demanded.

Polly shook her head, "You've made your choices."

"So that's it, then," he replied. "I'm to let her go."

"You let her go once before-"

"When I had no other choice," he snapped.

Polly returned his stare, unmoved in the face of his utter fury, "And now," she said, brow lifted.

"I won't make the same mistake twice."

When he didn't arrive at the office the next day Polly understood implicitly, he'd gone to deliver Mary a message himself.


	21. Chapter 21

It took him half a day of traveling to reach her address. He pounded on her door until the next-door neighbors appeared, outraged until they got a good look at him. They didn't have to know his name to recognize he wasn't a man to be told what to do. He debated taking the door clean off the hinges, but thought better of it. 

Her letter had mentioned work so he returned to the street, asking each person he passed for the name of the local seamstress. It was moving late into the afternoon by then, the temperature beginning to fall. In a few minutes, he'd received the names of two seamstresses, and directions to both shops. He adjusted his overcoat against the wind, preparing to walk towards the closer of the two. 

As he turned in the direction of the shop, he was brought up short by a familiar face. She was startlingly beautiful against the damp gray of the street, walking steadily closer, attention diverted by a street vendor. He stared at her, as though seeing a ghost, overwhelmed by the sight of her after so many months. Her hair was gathered at the nape of her neck, revealing the length of her throat and pearlescent drop earrings in either ear. Her coat was light blue, highlighting the honey of her hair, partially hidden by a berry colored hat. She wore no ring on her left hand. He felt it like a punch to his gut.

"Mary." 

She looked up at the sound of his rasping voice, unmistakable on any street. He watched her, searching her face for the reaction he'd anticipated, wonder and confusion, and finally relief. But she remained unmoved, expression schooled entirely placid, as though she'd been waiting weeks for this very moment.

"It's good to see you alive, Thomas."

He noted the cool tone, the dismissive tilt of her chin, understanding with sickening clarity she wasn't surprised by the sight of him. As his shock dissipated, he felt fury lift in its wake.

"How long have you known," he demanded quietly, voice rough.

"Since your first letter."

"First," he repeated, incredulous.

His letters hadn't been lost or stolen, misaligned or mistaken for another's, she'd received them in full. Her silence had been a practical disaffection. He wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled. He wanted to recite each letter and force her to hear every word.

His fury built around him like a wall, his gaze became impenetrable, "You've known, this whole time-"

"There's nothing to talk about," she interrupted, a fraction of a her cool mask slipping. In the reveal, her bloody beating heart.

Tommy took a halting step closer, hands gripped to fists at his sides, temper reaching explosive heights at her rebuff, "If you haven't read my letters, then there's fucking plenty."

"And I'm telling you there's not," she snapped, voice rising, dark eyes flashing. His smirk was slow as he studied the frayed lines of her expression. He recognized the particular brand of ire he'd encouraged.

"There she is."

She made a noise of frustration. Annoyed she'd played into his hands, allowing her temper to get the better of her. It had taken him no time at all to prove, behind her careful indifference, she was the same woman who'd argued her way into his business, and then his bed. Despite the months between them, these elemental parts of her seemed unchanged.

"Go home," she said, salvaging her composure, pinkened cheeks the only indication she'd reacted at all. "Leave me be."

He shook his head, "I can't."

"You can," she replied, expression icing, his deception dancing between them. "You already have."

She walked stiffly past him and down the street. He stared after her, disbelieving, unprepared to say any more without whiskey first. He found a pub a few blocks away, drinking until the sun went down. He'd smoked through most of his cigarettes, cursing the whiskey for its failure to wipe her image, dressed in petal blue and raspberry, from his mind's eye. It was surely the most color he'd seen her wear in months, nearly years, of knowing her. Bitterly, he imagined, his death had seen fit to free her. Tossing coins onto the bar top, no less amiable than he was when he arrived, he walked the short distance to her new flat. Angry as hell that she'd curated a life outside of Birmingham so precious that she'd deserted him for it.

* * *

She'd been expecting him since she returned home. Her tea had gone cold twice over before she gave in to pacing between windows to watch the streets below. When he did appear on the sidewalk, he was unmistakable. From the set of his shoulders, to the angle of his stride. Mary had the singular desperate urge to plant two pillows over her ears and hide in the back closet. Though she knew full well, that wouldn't stop him seeing her, if that's what he intended.

Footsteps drew nearer and stopped outside her door, a moment later his voice shot through the wood, "Mary."

She stayed quiet, willing him to understand why she'd closed herself off to any hope of reconciliation.

"Open the door," he commanded. "Or I'll take it off the fucking hinges."

She hesitated, just long enough for him to throw his shoulder against it. The door wheezed under his weight, lock offering a weak hiss.

"I already told you-"

When he repeated the moment she gave in, rushing forward to yank open the door. He was red eyed from whiskey and a smoky bar, cap disappeared into his pocket to reveal dark hair disheveled across his forehead. He was handsome as hell, back from the dead and darkening her doorstep.

"Thomas, I-"

Tommy reached for her, his touch gentle enough to stun her. The words died on her lips, pulse skittering. He traced the curvature of one cheek, the pad of his thumb finding the lush of her lower lip. He smelled like cigarettes this close, staining her mouth with the scent. She stared up at him, resolve continuing to waver at the sight and sound of him. For all her months of wanting, replaced with unholy fury at his deception, it was torture to have him returned to her now.

"Fuck, I've missed you."

She felt her expression soften at his words. Immediately, panic shot through her, at what he was capable of undoing, of what he was capable of making her do. She began to offer an unsteady refusal as she stepped out of his reach, belatedly realizing it gave him access to her flat. In the blink of an eye, Tommy was inside, larger than life in the small quarters of her new home. She held her breath, anticipating his fury.

"I thought you were dead."

Mary stared at him, the irony of his words wasn't lost on her.

"I wanted you to be dead."

She stiffened at this. He was savage in his fury, the whiskey making his mean.

"Because if you weren't," he said. "That meant you'd left me behind."

Mary offered no reply, chin notched. She pressed her lips together, holding onto plenty of disappointments of her own, but hard pressed to share them. Understanding implicitly, that any space she made for him, any fraction of her loss and longing that she laid bare, would signal renewed trust. And she was far from prepared to let him in again.

In the face of her silence, Tommy demanded, "Where are my letters."

She remained quiet, black eyes flickering briefly over his left shoulder. He followed the motion, turning on his heel to disappear into her darkened bedroom. She'd kept them, bound and unopened, save one, in the bureau beside her bed. They were nestled in the top drawer beside a chipper hand mirror and Polly's loaned lipstick. Within thirty seconds Tommy reappeared, letters clenched in one fist.

His expression was fierce, "Explain this to me."

"There's nothing to explain," she said. "We both did what we had to do."

"Did we," he demanded, tone suggesting he thought otherwise.

Mary inhaled a steadying breath, then, "Tommy, you let me believe you were dead."

"I had to," he said. "If Campbell had his way, I would have died that night."

"You did die," she returned, angry, tears rising unbidden to her eyes.

He prowled steadily closer, holding his stack of letters between them, "Then explain these to me."

Her mouth twisted down at the corners against any further reply, dark eyes mutinous.

"Your imagination-"

She slapped the bundle free of his grip, it bounced to the floor, envelopes exploding out of the band. They stayed, toe to toe, his letters covering their feet, simmering in their respective furies.

"You want me to leave, I'll leave," he said. "But you'll answer me one thing first."

She watched him, waiting.

"Why didn't you open them."

She shook her head, "I couldn't."

"Why, Mary."

She was quiet, words caught in the back of her throat.

"Answer me," he rasped.

"I knew if I read them I wouldn't be able to stay away," she said, sounding stronger than she felt. "Not from Birmingham, and not from you."

"Stay away," he repeated, incredulous. "You-"

"You made me a promise, Thomas," she cut him off, the crux of her silence after all these months, finally laid bare. "You told me you would always be honest with me."

His expression shuttered, mouth compressed to a thin line. His manipulation had misused her trust, his letters too little, too late. The proposal he'd delivered, and his ring on her finger, had been reduced to collateral damage. He squeezed his eyes shut, damning Campbell, damning himself.

Finally, he replied, voice rough, "You're right, Mary, I didn't keep my promises."

The line of her shoulders relaxed a fraction as some of the fight extinguished from his eyes. He released a heavy breath, gaze lifting, prepared to commit every fine detail of her to his memory. It was then, that he noticed a small indent tenting the fabric of her white blouse. He moved steadily closer, eyes on the spot, asking quietly, "What's this."

His hand lifted, knuckles tracing the bump.

"Nothing-"

He hooked the collar of her shirt with two fingers, despite her protest, revealing a gold chain against the side of her throat. Before she could stop him, he'd lifted it out from beneath her blouse, drawing the signet ring he'd given her into view. Their engraved initials flashed up at him, a mocking testament to the life he'd promised her.

"When did you stop wearing it."

She shut her eyes, honesty on her lips, "When I received your first letter."

He released her as though burned, shoving both hands through his hair at her admission. Bitterly hurt that she'd been unable to escape his memory, but he himself had been keenly dispatched.

"You don't think I regret it," he demanded through gritted teeth. "Leaving Birmingham without telling you, not being able to come back from Ireland until I was certain Campbell's attention was elsewhere."

At this, she felt a hundred questions come to mind, nearly on her lips. But she pressed thoughts of reconciliation aside, resistant and still unable to compromise after months of building walls against him. Ignoring his reasoning, she returned stiffly, "I'm trying to protect myself."

He stared at her, eyes blazing, "From me."

"From being hurt," she shot back. "Again."

"Hurt," he repeated, incredulous. "I had my heart ripped from my chest, coming home to find you gone."

Her head dropped, chin to her chest, eyes squeezed shut against crying. If tears shed for Thomas Shelby were diamonds, she would be the richest woman in England.

"I asked you to wait for me."

Her eyes flickered open, "There is no waiting on a dead man, Thomas."

"I needed you," he continued, raging. "I needed you to be waiting for me when I could come home, I needed you to want me, for _me_ , for all of this," he spread his arms. In her mind's eye she saw the Shelby office, Polly and her tea and clove cigarettes, the Garrison, Arthur slinging shots, John and Esme. His empire, home grown, fed by a desire for power. He'd sought her understanding, for what he'd done, and what he planned to do. In her acceptance he'd seen a potential for life long love, and in her absence, betrayal. "And instead you left me."

In under an hour, he had forced her to do what she'd spent weeks refused to do. Weigh her own hurts and his deception, against the fallout of her steady silence. Regret blossomed in her chest, painful enough to sting. 

"When I needed you most," he said, voice growing hoarse. "When all I wanted was you, you were gone."

She turned away from him, aching, head and heart at odds.

"It's been a year," he said, finally weary. "Tell me you haven't thought of me."

"Every day," she replied, eyes trained on the far wall, avoiding his gaze. "There wasn't a moment I wasn't thinking about you."

He muttered something unintelligible, then, "Have it your way, Mary."

The door slammed behind him, she winced at the sound.

In his absence, she sank heavily into the nearest chair, head in her hands. Within a day of his return, he'd managed to unsettle every foundation she'd spent the last year laying for herself. His arrival had lifted a mirror to her decision to ignore his letters, and staring back at her was a lonely woman, anchored in place by a wedding ring at her neck.


	22. Chapter 22

Her dismissal burned. He felt her rejection like a knife through his heart. The same target Campbell had sought, she'd nailed with precision. He made it no further than the stairs outside her door, lowering himself to the uneven planks. He sat with his knees bent, supporting the weight of his arms, chin dipped to his chest.

Half an hour later, when her door swung open he didn't react. Already anticipating her frustration at the sight of him, he steeled for it.

"Tommy."

Her tone had softened, she sounded surprised to see him.

"Come back inside."

He considered her request, lifting his head to assess her expression. He was bleary eyed, from unshed tears, from too much whiskey. He took some solace in the fact that she was in no better shape, eyes rubbed red from crying, hair undone, barely pinned back from her face.

He noted the coat over her shoulders, "Where were you going."

"I need to know what happened that night," she said, ignoring his question. "I'm ready to listen."

He stood, one hand braced to the wall for a moment, regaining his balance after being stooped over for so long. When he sought her gaze, he was smirking, humorless, "You were coming to find me."

"Please, come inside."

He didn't repeat himself, accepting her offer with no further comment. She shut the door behind him, removing her coat and beginning the motions of making tea.

"I don't want fucking tea, Mary," Tommy snapped. Her cheeks ripened at his chastising, turning to face him. He watched the slow shoring of her defenses, the squaring of her shoulders, the dismissal of any lingering tears from her eyes. She'd grown harder in his absence, born of his death and deceit. His gaze dipped to his ring, delicately tenting the fabric of her blouse, seeking certain hope from her singular decision to wear it close to her heart.

"Tell me," she pressed, voice steadied.

"You understand every word of this was in my letters."

Her chin notched, "I want to hear you say it."

He released a hissing breath, frustrated by her stubborn pride.

"I told you," she said, a compromise, or the best he'd get. "I'm ready to listen."

He studied her expression, gauging her sincerity. She pulled out the remaining chair, sitting down beside him, the corner of the table firmly between them.

"What happened that night."

"When I left you, I went straight to the Garrison," Tommy began.

"For guns," she said, nodding, remembering his plans well.

"Yes," he returned. "Arthur and John were to round up the boys and meet me outside."

"Did they."

"Eventually, from the sounds of it," Tommy replied, lighting a cigarette. "But I'd come and gone by, then."

She frowned, "Where were you."

"When I got there, Campbell was waiting for me, and Kimber with him," Tommy continued, inhaling, the end of his cigarette glowing red. "Campbell shot me, and left me for dead in the alley behind the pub."

Mary's face registered no surprise at this, it had been Campbell's account of that night's events that had dictated the days to come.

"He told us it was you who shot first," she said, anticipating his denial before he offered one.

Tommy shook his head, releasing a humorless laugh, "I wish I'd had a gun in my hand that night, but I didn't."

"Who found you," she asked.

"Charlie," he said. "Came around back when he heard the shot. He took me into the cellar and stopped the bleeding."

"And the bullet-"

"I dug it out myself," he said, wincing at the memory. "Charlie smuggled me on a supply boat to Ireland that night."

She was quiet, coming to understand the decisions he'd made that night weren't born of selfish design, but of desperation. He was prepared for Kimber's arrival, but not for Campbell's ambush. And in the aftermath of both, he'd done what he thought best to stay alive.

"I stayed there until Charlie gave word that Campbell had shifted his attention elsewhere."

She stared at him, brow furrowed, "You mean, Campbell has known all along you were alive."

"Yes," Tommy nodded. "He came back for my body."

The line of Mary's shoulders depressed a fraction, she rubbed her forehead, warring between angry and frustrated, "I can't believe-"

"I was in the cellar with Charlie, we heard him in the alley above us, searching for me," Tommy said, remembering all too well. His mouth tipped to smirk, "Cursing me."

Her fury coalesced at Campbell's selfish manipulation, remembering all to well his refusal to release Tommy's body from Crown custody. At the time it had seemed cruel justice, for Tommy's sins, the those of his family. Now, Mary understood, it was meant as security, to conceal Campbell's failure to finish his job. As she continued to untangle Campbell's cruel deception, Tommy lit another cigarette.

Finally, she hooked his gaze, "This means Campbell's lied to Kimber about you."

She wouldn't soon forget Kimber's smug visit to the Garrison not long after Tommy's supposed death. He came to gloat, toasting Tommy, and the Blinders, and finally his own good fortune before Arthur and John started issuing threats.

Tommy nodded, "A deception Kimber won't easily forgive or forget."

"Do you plan to capitalize on it."

"I plan to kill him," Tommy replied honestly.

"Campbell," Mary asked, brow lifted.

"Both of them."

She was quiet, then, "Does Campbell know you've returned to Birmingham."

Tommy nodded, "I made sure of it."

Mary released a heavy breath, "And your plans for Kimber."

"The same as before," Tommy replied, expression turned serious. "I haven't forgotten what I set out to do."

She nodded absently, weighing his homespun war in her mind, counting up the losses. Her hand lifted unconsciously to the front of her blouse. He watched her trace the small circle of his signet ring, transfixed.

After a stretch of silence, he said, "I came back for you, Mary."

She met his piercing gaze, as always, snagged between wanting to believe him, and her better judgement. The man before her was dangerous, possibly more so than he had been before he'd gone away to Ireland. His rougher edges sharpened. His suit was the same, his overcoat and white pressed shirt, all as she remembered. But the man beneath, living and breathing before her, was a man bent on revenge.

"I know it wasn't when you expected me," he said. "But I came back."

"Expected you," she mimed, shaking her head. "Tommy, I never expected any of this."

She stood, arms around her middle, retreating towards the twin windows overlooking the street.

"I meant what I said that day on the street, outside of Alfie's," she said softly. "I had no intention of working for the Peaky Blinders."

"I know," Tommy said, elbows braced to his knees, head bowed.

"But once I did, and once I knew you better," she continued. "I found I was better for it."

He looked up at this, surprised, daring to hope. In profile, her brow was knit, internally, she balanced choice and consequence, and desire and destiny.

"And when you died-"

She broke off, a singular tear wetting her cheek.

He was out of his chair, covering the distance between them to hold her face between his hands, "Mary Byrne, I broke my vow to you."

Her eyes shut against his words, in her head, she could hear his voice, months and months ago. Promising to honor and cherish, to be truthful, and to love her. Delivered first over tea in her kitchen, and sealed in his cramped room on Watery Lane.

"I left without giving you word," he said. "And when I did write, I was too late."

She opened her eyes at this, "To mourn you, and then receive your letters," she shook her head, breaking contact with him. "Tommy, I-"

"Forgive me, Mary."

His voice was quiet, rough, with an edge of desperation. She regarded him, feeling the mighty push and pull of his power, undaunted even after a year apart.

"You asked me to wait," she returned after a lengthy pause. "And I didn't."

"No," he agreed. "You didn't."

"I broke my promise," she said.

"Forgiven," he shook his head. "I forgive you, Mary, I-"

"I love you, Tommy."

He went stone still. She touched two fingers to her lips, as though surprised to find the words there.

"Again," he commanded, nearly hoarse.

"I never stopped loving you."

He reached for her, palms to either side of her neck, thumbs pressed to her cheekbones to tip her head, "It's been too long since I've heard you say those words."

Before she could offer a reply, his mouth covered hers, insistent enough to weaken her knees. Her fingers found the front of his overcoat, pulling him a fraction closer, reveling in the familiar feel of his body against hers. Through all of her hurts and worry, and silence, for his supposed defeat and subsequent deception, they had found one another. She was grateful he hadn't given up, unsure if she would have had the strength to face him, without him forcing her hand.

When he released her, they were quiet, charting unfamiliar ground, having both offered absolution.

"Stay with me tonight," she said, before she lost her nerve.

Relief softened the line of his mouth, he nodded, "I'll stay."

"And tomorrow," she pressed, brow lifted, nearly afraid to ask.

"I leave for Birmingham."

"So soon."

He delivered a kiss to her forehead, "You know where to find me, Mary."

She eased backwards, shaking her head, "This is for both of us to decide, Tommy."

"Is it," he said, brow lifted. "I never stopped writing."

There was no reply she could make. He was right, when it was safe to write, he'd written, and when he'd received no reply he'd arrived himself. It had come time for Mary to make up her mind.

"Take me to bed, Mary."

At his request she linked their hands, guiding him the short walk to her darkened bedroom, to her narrow bed. He removed his overcoat and jacket, revealing a familiar gray vest and white buttoned shirt. She watched him loosen the collar, remembering the motion, aching at the familiarity of watching him perform simple tasks. He laid on his back, taking her into his side, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Sleep, love."

She closed her eyes, untangling her best efforts to bar him from her life, and the reality of existing now in his arms. The year without him had been agony. The loss turned to longing, the despair twisting to self-righteous anger when his letters began to arrive. At the heart of it all, and what she needed to unburden from her own soul, was if she couldn't live without him.

Was it wanting Thomas Shelby, or needing him. This question, she came to realize, was what her whole life hinged upon.

* * *

She awoke to an empty bed, startled she sat up, pressing curls out of her eyes. The room was barely lit, the sky streaked periwinkle with the first dregs of sunrise.

"Tommy."

Slipping free of the mattress, she walked the short perimeter of her flat, frowning. It was on her second pass through the kitchen that she noticed a scrap of paper and Tommy's poor penmanship. He'd written a single thing, a particular time. She picked it up, rubbing it between her thumb and index finger. She brewed tea, gathering his unopened letters, understanding she had a decision to make.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been updated since I originally published it - update as of 3/1. Added an intimate moment between Mary and Tommy, and switched up some of the events. Hope everyone enjoys :)

She read every letter he'd written, eight in total. Two more than the number of months he'd been back in Birmingham. The sun was high in the sky by the time she'd finished, having read and then reread each one. Her bed sheets held the imprint of his body, her flat smelled faintly of smoke and whiskey. She felt the memory of his kiss, his hands in her hair, desire drumming the base of her belly. 

For each letter he'd written, she wrote him back. She spent days bent over her cramped kitchen table, tea cooling to unbearable beside her, scrawling response after response. She'd tacked his note, the appointed time, to her wall. A reminder of what she was writing towards. His letters explained what had happened outside the Garrison between Campbell and Kimber, Charlie's timely intervention and his exile to Ireland. He divulged how difficult it had been to be apart, the nights he'd spent, sleepless, rivaled only by the nights he spent dreaming of her. Waking to find she was no closer than she had been the night before. The truths he'd promised her, all written, his vow to honor and cherish, intact. And in reading, and in writing, she found the strength to take him at his word. Imperfect as it was, impossible as the man could be, she couldn't deny his devotion.

Days stretched to a week, and then two before she'd responded to each correspondence. When she'd finished, she bundled the remainder of her belongings together and set herself on track for Birmingham. At the sight of her, Polly, in a rare display of emotion, burst into tears. Their brief conversation confirmed what Mary had already suspected, that Tommy had been standing in the same spot, at the same time, for the last two weeks. Polly promised to hold her tongue with Arthur and John, until after she met with their brother.

Though his note hadn't specified any one spot, she had a good guess where he'd be. The evening was cool, colder still as she neared the water. Wind snapped the flaps of her blue coat back and forth against her knees, inviting a chill. She'd managed to pin her hair into submission, but the weather had dismantled it, spilling errant curls around her neck. Tommy was standing two streets from the water, hands in either coat pocket, cap obscuring his expression. The stables and Shelby wharf weren't far off, sunset was visible from his vantage point. It was the same spot they'd stood, after he'd taken her to see Monaghan Boy. 

She took a moment to study him, the breadth of his shoulders, the singular line of his jaw. Each features deeply distinguishable. Spectacular in his fury, in stillness Tommy was fit to mesmerize. His dark overcoat and pants stood out against the dreary streetscape, she watched the wind steal the smoke right out from between his lips. Moving quietly across the cobbles, she came to a stop beside him, chin tipped to look up at the slowly shifting sky.

"Ms. Byrne."

He was perfectly still, cigarette hooked into the side of his mouth, eyes trained straight ahead.

"Mr. Shelby."

"I hope you're not here for work," he said quietly.

Mary laughed, in spite of herself, and all she had to lose.

"You're telling me you wouldn't hire me back," she asked.

"I have a bad habit of falling in love with my secretaries," he replied, cigarette coming to an end. "I don't know if I'd survive making that mistake twice."

She turned to face him, "Make me something else, then, Tommy," she said, miming his original proposal.

"What did you have in mind," he said, miming the motion, bringing them toe to toe.

"Your wife."

He considered her, unreadable for a moment, repeating, "Wife."

From the depths of her coat pocket she produced his letters. He surveyed the bundle, brow lifted, "You brought my letters back to me."

"And my responses," she replied, extending them. He took the stack between his hands, thumbing briefly through the envelopes and neatly folded sheets of paper. She'd slipped her own letters beside his originals, each envelope fit to burst with their combined efforts.

"I'll read them," he said, gaze lifting to hers as he disappeared the letters into his own coat pocket. "But right now, I'd rather hear you say it."

She steadied herself, having anticipated this request, "I'll never lie to you," she promised, chin lifting, expression serious. "And I'll protect you with my life."

"Will you honor and cherish me," he said, brow lifted.

"Always, Tommy."

He reached up, fingers threading the curls at the nape of her neck to draw her closer, "I love you, Mary."

She relaxed against him, grateful for the words.

"Will you marry me."

"Yes," she nodded, dark eyes bright and wet with tears. "Yes-"

He kissed her thoroughly, sunset overhead, Birmingham growing dark around them. When they finally made their way back to Watery Lane, Mary angled towards the Shelby office, while Tommy's grip on her hand propelled her past and up the street.

"Tommy-"

She glanced at the curtained windows, certain she'd seen Polly's silhouette.

"We should see Poll, and Arthur-"

He stopped short to draw her flush against him. His eyes buzzed to the lush of her mouth, she felt his gaze like a physical touch.

"I haven't had you in months," he continued roughly. "You can catch up with my fucking family for the rest of our lives, but right now, I need you."

Her whole body ran hot at his words. Gripping the collar of his overcoat she pressed a kiss to his lips. His groan was instantaneous, she felt his fingers dig into her back, pressing her closer.

"Tell me you want me," he commanded quietly, mouth moving against hers. "Tell me, Mary."

"I want you," she complied around a shuddering breath. "Take me home, Tommy."

After a moment, and with some effort, he released her. Picking up her hand, he lead her the rest of the way home. He was renting the same room, cramped, a bed shoved into one corner. Once Mary removed her coat, Tommy's hands cupped the spool of her waist.

"I've dreamed about tonight," he said, forehead against hers.

"We both have," she replied quietly, pulse picking up, heady with anticipation.

He kissed her deeply, removing the lingering pins from her hair. She pulled his shirt free of his pants, undoing buttons so her fingers could run the expanse of his chest.

At the feel of her hands on his bare skin, he released a hissing breath, "I need you-"

Their first coupling was urgent, clothes frantically pushed aside, barely naked to one another before he was buried deep inside her. Mary held him between her thighs, absorbing each shuddering breath he took, branded by his hands at her hips. The second time, Tommy moved with persistent slowness. His touch detailed every corner of her body, reacquainting himself. From the hollows above her collar bones, to the firmness of her breasts. The divot of her belly button, and the shape of her hips. When his palm eclipsed the apex of her thighs, fingers delving between her folds, she begged him for release.

He kissed her, moving slowly overtop her body, positioned at her entrance unmoving. Her fingers dug into his thighs, but he remained motionless, one hand lifted to brush curls free of her forehead.

"You're mine, Mary," he said quietly. "In this life, and all the rest."

She stared up at him, hair haloed against his pillow, cheeks ripe, "I'm yours."

With one slow roll of his hips he joined them, bringing a moan, unbidden, to Mary's lips.

"Mine and mine alone," he said between insistent thrusts. Mary's hips rose to meet his, demanding more, as the pressure continued to mount. But Tommy refused her, maintaining a steady rhythm, denying her release.

When her dark eyes flickered open, begging on her lips, Tommy shook his head, "We're not nearly finished, sweetheart, not yet."

* * *

Hours later they lay side by side, sweaty and finally spent, as the room paled with morning light. Mary lay with her head tucked against Tommy's shoulder, drifting between wakening and dreams.

"Are you satisfied."

Her dark eyes opened at this, she tipped her chin, seeking his gaze.

"Yes, Tommy."

He nodded, cigarette between his lips, tired, but grateful for the cause.

"And you," she said, quietly, tamping down a blush.

His smirk was slow, "Yes, Mary."

She relaxed against him once more, content. Tommy smoked, eyes on Mary beside him. The chain around her neck snagged a parcel of light, sparkling briefly.

"Sit up," Tommy commanded, dousing his cigarette. Mary complied, watching him, brow knit. Tommy reached out, undoing the clasp of her necklace, releasing his signet ring onto the sheets between them. He retrieved it and picked up her left hand in the same motion. "This isn't to come off again."

He delivered the words, both a warning and a promise.

Mary leaned forward to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, "For as long as I live."

He slid the ring onto its rightful finger. She touched his face, thumb following the line of his cheekbone. His hair was mused, eyes set to glow in the haze of early morning. Something in his expression shifted, "I intend to finish this business with Campbell," he said quietly. "And then we'll be married."

Disappointment sprang up in her dark eyes, "Tommy-"

Her gaze immediately cut to the poorly stitched scar along his left shoulder, evidence of Campbell's intentions. She reached out, the pads of her fingers tracing the wily line, mouth tipped down at the corners, overcome with sadness.

"I know," he cut her off. "I know I've already said this once before."

"Don't ask me to wait for you," she said. "Not again-"

"I'm not," he replied, taking her face between his hands, gently. "I'm telling you, I will be back."

She closed her eyes, releasing a heavy breath.

"Trust me," he said.

"I want to," she returned. "And I want to believe you, but you're not god, Tommy."

Her eyes flickered open, resigned, "So I'll ask you not to make promises you can't keep."

"Mary-"

"You _want_ to come back to me," she continued, undeterred. "And that will have to be enough."

His expression was grim, he nodded, "I will, Mary."

She leaned into him, cheek to his beating heart, soothed by the sound.

"I love you, Tommy."

He lay back, drawing her with him. As she fell into a restless sleep, he lit another cigarette, considering his plans for Campbell. Turning them over and over in his mind. All the while searching for the means to relay them to Mary, mitigating the danger, erasing the inherent risk.

It was his intent to enact his revenge at the races, knowing Campbell and Kimber would both be in attendance. Eliminating them simultaneously seemed fitting, after their show in the alley behind the Garrison. In the months since his homecoming, Tommy had rebuilt the Blinders, in name and strength. He'd waited until recently to send official word to Campbell that he had returned, knowing well enough, Campbell may already have heard rumor of the same. But as it was Campbell who had pronounced Tommy dead, by his own hand no less, there was little Campbell could do to confront him, without endangering his own reputation.

Tommy tired of playing the part of Birmingham's ghost, finally prepared to repay Campbell's bullet.

* * *

By midmorning, Mary had convinced him out of bed.

"Poll should know."

Tommy shot her a withering look, "Poll likely already knows."

Mary ignored his pointed stare, refusing to admit Polly was the first person she'd seen after arriving in Birmingham the day before. Knowing Tommy would meet that conclusion soon enough, upon seeing her suitcases neatly tucked in Polly's rooms. Finally dressed, they made the short walk up the street to the office.

Tommy entered first, stopping just inside the doorway to announce, "I'm getting married."

Mary bit back a laugh, for a man of great ambitions, he was equally skilled at cutting directly to the chase.

"Who's the lucky girl."

Mary recognized Arthur's booming voice, realizing, suddenly, just how much she'd missed each of them.

"Lucky," was John's smirking reply.

Tommy stepped fully inside, revealing Mary at his back. John immediately announced he'd known all along, she'd be back. Arthur came forward, clasping Tommy by the shoulder, roaring congratulations.

"Sweet Mary-"

She stepped into Arthur's one armed embrace, grinning.

"Another bloody sister, Tom," Arthur shook his head. "That's just what this family needs-"

John raised a decanter of whiskey, "A toast, is what we need."

Polly collected glasses, pouring generously. Mary shed her hat and coat, accepting whiskey from Polly's hand.

"You kept your promise," Polly said quietly, touching Mary's cheek. She smelled the same, faintly of clove and roses. "You came back."

Mary offered her a smile, grateful for her patience.

"To Tom and Mary," John said, glass extended. Mary mirrored the motion, turning as Esme entered the room, accepting her brief embrace.

"To love," Polly said, expression misty.

Mary leaned into Tommy's side, offering quietly, "To honest men."

Tommy smirked, whiskey nearly to his lips, when Arthur stepped forward to add, "To another fucking Shelby wedding."

Their glasses came together in cheers, Arthur's sloshing a slug of whiskey onto the floor in his enthusiasm. Mary sipped her drink, wincing, unadjusted to the taste of straight whiskey after so many months of tea. Tommy stood beside her, glass in one hand, opposite to the small of her back. Almost immediately business picked up around them, problems with the Garrison's books, plans to expand their betting books before the next race.

As Mary surveyed the room, she was dimly aware these people, for all their faults, had accepted her in full. First as an employee of the Garrison, then Tommy's own secretary, and soon to be his wife. In two years, the scope of her life had become unrecognizable. She touched the wedding ring on her left hand, feeling the impression of their initials against the pad of her thumb. When Tommy deposited a kiss to her forehead, she looked up.

"There's work to be done," he said.

She nodded, hand lifting briefly to his chest, feeling the insistent press of his heartbeat against her palm.

Tommy lifted his half empty glass in cheers, "To trouble."

She released a laugh, miming, "To trouble."

"I love you, Mary."

When he kissed her, she tasted whiskey on his lips. Finally, he turned, rounding up Arthur and John, and disappeared into his office.

* * *

Tommy waited until midweek to tell Mary what he intended for the Campbell and Kimber on Derby Day. Her reaction had been slow acceptance. She peppered him with questions about how he would, or possibly could, ensure his own safety.

Eventually, exhausted from talking it over and over, she said, "I'm sure there will be plenty of things in this lifetime that you chose to do, that I can't approve of, Tommy."

He released a pent up breath, tired of explaining himself, resigned to her logic.

"I only hope that after this, they'll be less dangerous."

His smile was slow, rueful, "Finally, something we can agree on."

She returned his smirk, agreeing, "Finally."

"Take me to bed, Mary," he said, extending his hand. She complied, trying to push thoughts of the races, his plans, from her mind.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been gently updated as of 3/5 :)

Tommy delivered Mary to the Shelby office early on Derby Day. It was blisteringly cold, by the time they arrived, Mary's nose was pink from the wind. As Tommy helped her out of her coat, he chatted absently with Polly, eyes never leaving Mary's face. Eventually, Tommy picked up Mary's hands, holding them tightly between his own.

"It's time," he said quietly.

Mary nodded, expression resigned.

"Poll will be with you," he said, calm in the face of her uncertainty. "You'll wait for me here."

Polly watched their exchange, smoking, expression drawn.

"When will you be back," Mary said, desperate for him to stay, stalling.

"I told you, I'll be home by nightfall," he said, mouth pressed to her temple. "I promise."

She nodded, quiet.

"I love you, Mary Byrne," he said.

"And you, Thomas Shelby," she replied, touching his cheek. "I love you."

He turned to Polly briefly, "We'll be back in a few hours."

"Call if there's trouble."

Tommy nodded, turning on his heel, leaving the two women alone. Arthur and John were waiting outside when he stepped into the street. He lit a cigarette, expression severe, "Are we ready, boys."

Arthur produced a flask to toast, gracelessly, the impending death of two men.

After John took a healthy sip he lifted the container, "Fuck Campbell."

He handed it to Tommy next. Tommy took a long drink, warming as the whiskey hit his stomach, repeating, "Fuck Campbell."

They set off for the races. The core of Tommy's plan lay in confronting Kimber. Standing before him as flesh and blood, Tommy's existence would be hard to deny, despite Campbell's best efforts to conceal it. He had no intention of keeping either man alive long after they'd shared this knowledge. For the bullet wound in his shoulder and nearly losing Mary in the aftermath, he would have his revenge.

* * *

It was nearly five o'clock before Mary and Polly received any word from the races. Esme had arrived not long before, tired of being overrun by her children, enjoying the peace of the nearly empty Shelby office. It was Finn, who had come of age since Tommy's return and been made a tentative Blinder, at the doorstep with the first bit of news, rambling, reporting. Mary was surprised by the sight of him, taller than she remembered, face turning angular like those of his older brothers. He was unmistakably a Shelby boy, even without the peaked cap.

"Slow down," Esme snapped.

"Tommy's done it," he said, barely breathing at all. "He's killed them both."

Polly exchanged a brief look with Mary, before waving Finn on, understanding there were reinforcements at the Garrison that needed to be called off.

"Does that mean he's alright," Mary said quietly.

"I imagine it does," Polly replied, careful not to promise too much.

"He thinks we'll be safer now," Mary shook her head, believing Tommy's prediction false. "There will be more men just like Campbell, and Kimber."

"Yes," Polly agreed. "But they'll be slower to test their mettle against Tom after today."

Mary met her gaze, "I hope so."

At the edge of darkness, right on cue, the doors opened to reveal Tommy, Arthur, and John. They were barely bloodied, removing their caps, calling for whiskey. Tommy went straight to Mary, drawing her close, beginning to smile, "I'm back."

"As promised," Mary grinned, kissing him soundly. Polly distributed glasses, clove cigarette held between two knuckles. John swooped Esme up and into his arms, ignoring her protests, while Arthur began pouring whiskey.

"Marry me," Tommy said.

"Yes."

"Tonight," he said.

She shook her head, beginning to laugh, "Tommy-"

"Tomorrow, then," he said, sensing her careful retreat.

She studied his hopeful face, grateful to have him alive and held against her, grateful for his persistence.

"Yes, Tommy," she nodded, giving in, and happy to do it. "I'll marry you tomorrow-"

He pulled her close, kissing her deeply.

"Tom's already celebrating," Polly commented over his shoulder.

He lifted his head, facing Polly, Esme, and his brothers, "We're getting married tomorrow."

Polly handed them each whiskey, looking between them, "I'll find a priest."

"Short notice," John said, brow wagging. Esme gave his chest a resounding slap, only half an admonishment given the smirk on her face.

"Long overdue," Tommy replied, drinking his whiskey down.

Mary mirrored the motion as Esme appeared at her elbow, "You'll want a wedding dress."

Tommy answered for her, "She'll have whatever she wants."

Polly and Esme lit up at this, gathering Mary, chattering between them about dresses they could loan her, flowers she should carry. Mary kept her whiskey glass full, sipping instead of speaking, head spinning.

* * *

The priest begrudgingly offered to perform a brief service for them, Polly shamelessly quoting donations she'd made to the parish in the past. Tommy wore dark gray, hair rushed back from his forehead with impatient fingers. The church was bright cool, stained glass painting pretty pictures across the pews. Tommy fidgeted on the steps of the alter, wanting to light a cigarette, resisting the urge. Arthur stood beside him, offering him quick nips from his flask. 

When Polly entered the church, cheeks pink, a singular flower in her hand, Tommy knew it was nearly time. She pressed the flower into his jacket, branding him. Tommy followed the motion, feeling strangely vulnerable.

"You're not an easy man, Tom," Polly said quietly, hooking his gaze. "But you'll be a fine husband."

His expression softened a fraction, as close to a smile as she'd get. She took her place in the pew beside Esme.

Shortly after, Mary appeared in the doorway. Her borrowed gown was the palest pink, the same color as the inner swirl of a seashell. The dress revealed the line of her collar bones and the length of her neck. The sleeves were sheer, blossoming at either shoulder to taper demurely to her wrists. It snatched at the waist, in what could be called out of fashion this close to 1925, the skirt below falling in gentle tiers to the ground. Tommy curbed his frustration at not being able to see her face, as Polly had draped her, from forehead to shoulders, in a filmy veil. In her hands was a plush white bouquet, he briefly touched the flower Polly had marked him with.

The aisle was slanted in sunlight, for each step Mary took, she alternated in and out of shadow. By the time she reached Tommy's side, her hands were shaking. His expression registered relief as he picked up the edges of the veil to expose her face. She'd worn her hair loose and red lipstick. At the sight of her, he released a breath he hadn't known he was holding. She was at once, the same woman he'd stopped on the street two years ago, issuing a curt dismissal despite his reputation for getting his way, and the wanton woman who'd begged for release in his bed, nearly every night since their reunion a month prior. She had the ability to surprise him, after all these months, and her fierce determination still scared the hell out of him. Looking at her now, staring up at him and prepared to wear his ring, he was vaguely aware of how lost his life would have been without her.

"Mr. Shelby," Mary said quietly, mindful of the priest, waiting patiently only a few feet away.

"Ms. Byrne," he returned, mouth edging to smirk. "For the last time."

He took her arm, guiding her onto the altar, not releasing his hold until the priest called for the rings. Arthur produced a velvety satchel, drawing two gold bands. They recited vows, bound first in blood, and then with gold. 

Tommy produced a handkerchief for her bloodied palm, fingers pressed to the fabric to staunch the bleeding. She looked at their joined hands, his finger now adorned with his own wedding band. She barely heard the priest invite them to kiss, when Tommy tipped her chin she looked vaguely surprised.

"Mrs. Shelby."

"Yes," she said, voice barely audible.

"Kiss me."

She leaned forward, fusing their mouths as he pulled her closer with his free hand. Arthur whooped, flask lifted, while the remaining Shelby's clapped and whistled. When they broke apart, Tommy brushed a kiss to her knuckles, "I love you, Mary."

"I love you," she touched his cheek, "Forever."

He stared at her, wearing an expression she couldn't quite put a name to, "Much longer than that, Mrs. Shelby."

They were swept apart, Mary pulled into Polly and Esme's embrace, while Arthur pushed the flask into Tommy's hand, John's arm slinging his neck. Mary accepted their love, the surreal knowledge that she'd married a Peaky Blinder, Thomas Shelby no less, making her slightly dizzy.

They celebrated at the Garrison. The bar was already bursting upon their arrival. Harry doled out drinks, as Tommy and Mary were congratulated again and again. Mary had removed her veil, allowing Esme to tuck her unruly curls into an unraveling chignon at the back of her head. Tommy had trouble taking his eyes off her. She was, impossible as it seemed, more beautiful than she had been before marrying him. More beautiful still, every time he looked at her.

"Are you happy, Tom."

Polly was beside him, following the line of his gaze to Mary.

"Yes," he replied honestly, surprised in spite of himself. "I am."

"You'll remember this moment, then," Polly said. "When things aren't so easy."

Tommy looked down at her, cigarette between his lips, her expression was briefly sad. He understood implicitly he'd been given an opportunity that had passed her by, the chance at a partnership by choice, not responsibility.

"She's a good match," Polly continued, assured. "She's not afraid of you."

Tommy laughed, exhaling smoke.

"She saw things in you," Polly said, undeterred by his mirth. "Parts of yourself you didn't realize you'd shown her."

They were quiet, until Tommy said, "I've never known anyone like her."

Polly nodded, mouth tipped to smile, "And that's why you married her."

Tommy doused his cigarette, crossing the room to Mary. He caught her elbow, drawing her back a step so he could murmur, "It's time to go."

She nodded, first seeking each Shelby sibling, then Esme, and finally Polly. Each one kissed her cheek, gripped her hands, and reiterated their joy for having her back. Tommy stood beside her, listening to their well wishes with an unreadable expression.

"He wasn't right without you, sweet Mary," Arthur said, shaking his head.

John grimaced, "He was a bloody mess."

"He's better for having you beside him again," Polly smiled, tucking an errant curl behind her ear.

Finally, Tommy helped her into her coat and led her outside. Mary frowned at the sight of his car just outside the pub, "It's not such a far walk, Tommy."

He shook his head, "I have a surprise."

"For me," she said.

"A wedding present."

Her brow lifted, "Are you not enough."

He grinned, bundling her into the car, still shaking his head. They drove through Birmingham and into the lush of the countryside, the road was lined with trees instead of bricks and steel, the air was cool and quiet, punctuated by the hum of crickets and birds.

"Where are we going, Tommy," she asked, sleepily, cheek to his shoulder.

"Home, sweetheart."

She dozed fitfully beside him, lulled by the hum of the car. When they finally stopped she was taken aback to find a sprawling estate before them, outfitted with plenty of land, gardens, and stables.

Tommy met her gaze, "I promised you a country house, Mary Shelby."

"This is a palace," she said, allowing him to guide her out of the car. She stared up at the house, shocked, overwhelmed by his gesture.

"It's ours," he said.

She leaned into him, both hands on his arm, "It's beautiful."

He led her inside, watching as she marveled at the high ceilings, the wide windows. He'd bought a house without consulting her, and furnished it in the hopes that she'd see a forever home. Watching her now, and waiting for her reaction, was nearly worse than his wait at the alter hours before.

She walked from room to room, speechless.

"Say something, Mary," he said, gruff in his impatience.

"It's beautiful."

"Something besides that."

She faced him, "I love it."

"You're happy," he said, searching her expression.

"Yes," she replied, offering a heart stopping smile. "Yes, Tommy."

He stared at her, hands shoved into his pockets, quiet a while. Eventually he nodded absently at her, eyes clearing, obviously having arrived at some grand conclusion, "This is it, then."

She frowned, "What."

"Having it all."

She crossed the room, hands to his chest, delivering a kiss, murmuring, "It's you, Tommy, all I want is you."

He palmed the back of her head, mouth to her temple, "I'm yours."

They stood together, in the heart of their new home, fused by hands and mouth, enjoying every moment of their newfound peace.


	25. Chapter 25

With Billy Kimber eliminated, the Blinders took over much of the legal bookmaking at the racetrack. The Shelby company was booming, bringing in money hand over fist. Campbell gone paved the way for reinstating their mutual understanding with Birmingham's police. They were to operate unfettered, in exchange for a small fee. Mary mistook this to mean Tommy would settle into their country home, and his role as a husband. Having fulfilled his aspirations to move out of Birmingham and make legitimate money for the Shelby name. 

The first Shelby family meeting Tommy called after their wedding derailed this assumption. When they arrived at the office, the others were already gathered. Mary sat beside Esme, accepting whiskey spiked tea from Polly. As Tommy began, she experienced a singular mind spinning moment of déjà vu. The meeting was like any other, delivered with the same biting precision by a man fighting against his place in the world. He carried the same burning desire for power that he'd held before their wedding. The ring on his finger hadn't yanked him out of Birmingham, anymore than buying a house in the countryside.

She touched her own wedding, rubbing the cool metal with her thumb, watching him, tasting the bitterness of disappointment. Polly's hand came down on her shoulder, as though she'd read her thoughts. Mary tipped her chin, catching Polly's gaze, relieved to find a measure of understanding.

His new venture was an expansion into London, one, Mary understood, that was deeply rooted in his desire to break free of Birmingham. London posed a challenge, but a heightened payoff, given its size and status. The city was largely controlled by an Italian gang, led by Darby Sabini. It was Tommy's intention to enact the same gutting he'd inflicted upon Solomons. Before he was through with Sabini, his money would be worthless in London.

As Tommy spoke, Esme's expression soured, eyes on John. Mary began to understand, watching the glances traded between the two, they'd already spoken of Tommy's plans. It was clear Esme hadn't offered John her approval.

Eventually John cleared his throat, silencing Tommy long enough to speak.

"Since we took care of Kimber, we've made one hundred and fifty pounds a day," John said, hands pinioned to the small of his back, shoulders drawn back tight as an arrow. An attempt at looking bigger than what he was. "That's enough money to-"

"Who's talking," Polly cut in, blowing smoke. "You or your wife."

Esme stiffened at this intrusion.

"As the head of our household-"

Tommy raised a hand to silence him, eyes on Esme, "Esme's allowed to speak, if she has something to say."

"I was told only family's allowed," Esme returned, dark eyes cutting between Tommy and her husband.

"The Shelby Company is a modern enterprise that believes in equal rights for women," Tommy replied easily. "If you have something to say, say it."

Esme stood, ignoring John's expression, the contempt written in the line of Polly's mouth. She faced off with Tommy, describing the gang wars in London, weaving a tapestry of blood. Mary listened, eyes on Tommy, watching for any sign of wavering or discontent. Tommy remained impassive, listening, expression revealing nothing.

"The Italians may control the city," Esme shook her head. "But there's every kind of foreigners imaginable. There's no peace, not for anyone."

Tommy was quiet, accepting a glass of whiskey from Arthur. Finally, he offered a reply, "If we stick together, as we've always done, then we'll be fine."

Esme looked unconvinced, Polly covered a smirk behind her mug of tea.

"Much of what we do in London will quickly be legal, and what isn't," Tommy looked to Arthur. "Is in good hands."

"That's right," Arthur nodded.

"If there's anyone who wants no part of this future, you're free to go."

Tommy's words were met with quiet. Esme looked briefly to John, while he pointedly avoided her gaze. Mary didn't take her eyes off Tommy, from his expression, you'd never guess he just gave any of them leave, free and clear. He looked close to boredom, whiskey glass in hand, blue eyes trained on the far wall, waiting.

Eventually, he looked around the room, "Anything else."

Judging from his inflection, he barely meant it.

"No," he said, brow lifted, stamping out his cigarette.

"I think Esme's right," Mary said, Polly's hand tightened against her shoulder. She understood implicitly that part of Tommy's power came from going unchecked during these meetings. Grievances, complaints, concerns, all were handled individually, despite his boasts of equal opportunities. "As of now, this company stands to make a fortune."

Tommy stared at her, replying, "And this will make us more."

"What more could you want," Mary returned, a challenge.

He shook his head, "It's not for you to say, Mary."

Her smirk was humorless, "So the wives may speak, but you're not really interested in what we have to say."

Tommy surveyed the room for a final time, looking to the others as he announced, "The expansion begins tomorrow."

Before anyone could offer further comment, Tommy was striding out of the room. Polly and Arthur exchanged glances as Mary stood to follow him. Esme was already skirting the side of the table, trailing John's retreating shadow.

Tommy was behind his desk by the time Mary reached his office. He'd shed his overcoat and jacket, left in a stiff white shirt and vest. He looked tired, there were twin half moons beneath his eyes, the same color as violets.

Mary shut the door at her back, facing him, "Thomas-"

His smile was humorless, "You only call me that when you're angry."

She frowned, "That's not-"

"It's not worth arguing, Mary," Tommy interrupted, sitting down. "Not when there's other arguments to be had."

She took a steadying breath, conceding his point.

"Why tomorrow," she asked, aiming for open-minded.

"It's Newmarket Day," he replied. "Sabini will be off at the races."

Mary's brow lifted, "What will you do."

He lit a cigarette, "We'll take this opportunity to make our presence known."

"You mean to antagonize Sabini," she said, understanding this trip was meant to be eventful.

"Yes."

She stared at him, mouth pressed to a thin line.

"He controls most of the London clubs and the streets with them," Tommy said. "We need to make him feel vulnerable."

She moved towards the far wall, rubbing both hands along her arms. The wide windows revealed a gray morning, a quiet street. They were silent for a stretch of time, the only sound between them was Tommy pouring a glass of whiskey. When he joined her, bringing them shoulder to shoulder, she finally spoke.

"You keep wanting more," she said, shaking her head. "It invites trouble."

"Trouble," he repeated, brow lifted slightly. "Isn't that what we toasted to, the night before our wedding."

She shot him a withering look, "Not this kind."

"You should know better than anyone, Mary Shelby, I'm not a man who turns tail at the first sign of trouble."

"And these risks will catch up with you eventually," she pressed, undeterred.

He exhaled, "Mary-"

"Don't ask me not to worry," she interrupted, knowing what he meant to say, disinterested in platitudes. "I'm your wife, I'll always worry."

He set his glass aside to gather her into his chest, holding her gaze, "Let me worry, Mary."

"What would you have me do," she asked, hands to his shirtfront.

He considered her question for a long time, then, "Love me."

She relaxed at his request, allowing him to pull her steadily closer, "Always," she returned, happy for common ground.

"I'll be home late."

She tipped her chin back to hold his gaze, "Am I dismissed."

His expression pulled into familiar lines, suddenly hyper aware of every inch of her pressed against him. He kissed her deeply, before she could offer a word of protest, or remind him that his room was mostly windows overlooking the belly of the Shelby office. Any displays of their affection would be hard to ignore from the outside.

She felt exposed, despite her mutual desire, "We shouldn't-"

"It's my office," he cut her off, voice rough with wanting. "I'll tell every one of them to clear out, if I want."

She squirmed, "Tommy-"

"That's better," he said. She tilted her head, resigned to the fact that he was right, if he'd riled her temper she rarely used anything but his full name.

"Poll will want a word."

"She can wait," he said, mouth to her ear.

"She already has," Mary said, disengaging from his grip. "Finish your business, and come home."

He nodded, resigned, reaching for a cigarette. She pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, "I'll be waiting."

He retook his seat as she left, Polly almost immediately in the doorway, brimming with questions.

* * *

Mary awoke in the middle of the night to empty sheets beside her. Tommy hadn't been home in time for dinner, nor by the time she'd settled into bed. It was well past three a.m., though she didn't recall falling asleep. Freeing herself from the sheet, she pulled on a silken robe, and went in search of her husband.

She padded down the hall to his study, standing in the doorway, watching him for a moment. Tommy was at his desk, pouring over the letters she'd written. It wasn't the first time she'd caught him reading her love notes, rather than sleeping. These sleepless nights were usually a sign that something was on his mind. In this case, she knew well enough what was keeping him awake.

"Tommy."

He looked up, eyes bloodshot.

"Come to bed."

"I can't sleep," he shook his head.

"Please," she said, disinterested in waking the next morning to find him in the same chair, more run down than he'd been the day before. He stood, taking his glass of whiskey with him. He'd removed his vest and collar, left in an half undone white shirt and slacks, hair falling over his forehead. Incredibly handsome, despite his dishevelment.

She laid a hand to his chest when he reached her, studying him. "You can't go on like this."

He brushed his knuckles down the lush of her cheek.

"What's keeping you up, Tommy."

"London."

She searched his eyes, sensing a lie, "Is that all."

His expression shuttered.

"Talk to me," she said, a note of pleading creeping into her voice. "Please-"

"Take me to bed, Mary."

She said nothing further, instead picked up his hand, guiding him down the hallway to their bedroom. The sheets were barely mused from a single occupant. She slipped onto the mattress, watching as he undid the remaining buttons of his shirt, undressing before her. He was moon pale in the darkness, dark hair and light eyes in shocking contrast. She gathered him close, pulling his head to her chest, fingers moving gently through his untidy hair.

"Sleep, Tommy," she said softly. "I'll hold you."

After a long time his breathing evened out, she kept her arms around him, listening to his occasional murmurs, dreading his trip to London.


	26. Chapter 26

On Newmarket day, Tommy, Arthur, and John left for London early. The last dregs of nighttime streaked the sky purple. Tommy had dressed wordlessly, expression unreadable in the gloom of their bedroom. When Mary followed him out of bed and down the hall, he hadn't argued her out of his sight. He refused tea, lighting a cigarette instead. They waited in the great room, standing side by side at the windows, awaiting Arthur and John.

When the family's Model-T pulled into the winding drive, Tommy led her onto the front steps. The morning was cool, Mary kept a blanket around her shoulders, shivering despite the wool. Parking close by, Arthur rounded the hood of the car, raising a hand in greeting, "Tom."

Tommy nodded to the pair, lighting another cigarette.

Arthur delivered a quick kiss to Mary's cheek, "Sweet sister."

"You'll be careful," Mary said, gaze split between Arthur and John, not bothering to direct the comment towards her husband.

"You sound like Esme," John scowled, adjusting his cap.

"We'll be careful," Arthur replied, diplomatic.

"Easy for you to say," John grumbled. "You don't have anyone waiting for you at home, nagging-"

Mary stiffened, indignant, "Nagging-"

"Enough," Tommy said, pulling on his cap. "It's time to go."

Arthur and John climbed into the car, rubbing shoulders, already spoiling for a fight. Mary turned to Tommy, expression resigned. He deposited a kiss to her forehead, "I'll be home by morning."

"In one piece," she said, far from pacified.

He spread his arms, "Exactly as you see me now."

She pulled him closer, fingers gripping the lapels of his overcoat, mouth tipped for a kiss. As Tommy fulfilled her request, Arthur whistled, while John offered, "I remember being a newlywed."

"You're still fucking like newlyweds," Arthur replied around a swig of whiskey.

"Tomorrow," Tommy said quietly.

"Tomorrow," she returned, watching him climb behind the wheel. They drove out of sight, leaving her in utter quiet. She spent the day in the backyard, bundled under blankets, sipping tea. Their country house was grander than anything she'd ever seen. It was among the tangled gardens, in desperate need of care, that she felt most at home.

Late that night as she lay down for bed, she touched the sheets beside her. Undeniably missing her husband. The bed felt too big without him, and for the first time since he'd left, she felt a flicker of uncertainty. Alone in their bedroom, and even more alone in their large home.

* * *

The trip to London was a rousing success. They visited Sabini's Eden Club, stirring up trouble in the ten short minutes they were allowed inside. Tommy made sure to announce who they were and that they'd be back for round two soon enough. They spent the next few hours walking the streets of London, frequenting as many bars as they could find, complaining about the quality of city whiskey. 

By the time they started the drive home it was nearly sun up. John was asleep, snoring, with his chin tipped to his chest. Arthur was bleary eyed but awake, attention trained on Tommy.

"Have you told Mary."

Tommy's expression didn't change, "Told her what, Arthur."

"That you've fired her."

Tommy made a noise of discontent, "I didn't fire her."

"Let her go, then," Arthur replied, lighting a cigarette.

Tommy's expression was stony in the gray morning light, "There's no reason for her to work."

"I'm not asking if your wife should work," Arthur said. "I'm asking if you've _told_ her, Tom."

Tommy was quiet, then, "No."

Arthur rubbed his chin, "How do you think she'll take it."

Tommy made no reply, both brothers anticipating, if not envisioning, the pending implosion. They made it home by nine o'clock, having just missed Mary according to Charlie, who was stationed outside. He'd been instructed to watch the property in Tommy's absence.

Arthur's brow shot up, "She's on her way to the office."

Tommy ignored him, lighting a cigarette, knowing what their delayed arrival had set into motion.

"What's wrong," Charlie said, staring between them, as John made his way inside in search of a bed.

"Don't tell my wife we're back," John called over his shoulder. "I need some bloody quiet."

Arthur's laughter followed his retreat, "Hurry up, John boy, before Mary comes home to box Tom's ears."

Tommy ignored him, dispatching Charlie and following Arthur inside. They went directly to his study, as John snored on the couch in the great room. Sharing a bottle of whiskey between them as they discussed setting up shop in London.

When footsteps finally sounded in the hall, neither man was surprised. They'd been expecting Mary for the better part of the last hour. She was still wearing her navy coat when she slammed into Tommy's study. Her expression was somewhere between annoyed and angry, dark eyes narrowed beneath the brim of her hat.

"You replaced me."

"This sounds important, Tom," Arthur said, barely maintaining his poker face, as he stood up to gather his coat. Mary pointedly ignored him, knowing, with certainty, Arthur was well aware of why she'd come home early.

"Go, Arthur," Tommy dismissed him, sparing him any more of his wife's temper. Arthur needed no further encouragement, he was out the door and gone without another word.

"I went to the office," Mary said. "And there was a woman at my desk, keeping your calendar, taking care of the books-"

"You no longer work for me."

She was dead quiet, staring at him, at a loss for words. Tommy recognized her expression, he'd witnessed it before. It was the same look she'd worn when he ejected her from the Birmingham flat and relocated her closer to Watery Lane. And again after Henry's death, when he'd sealed Solomons' fate.

"You're to attend family meetings," Tommy said. "But that's all."

"That's all," she repeated.

"No wife of mine will work for the Shelby Company."

She stared at him, incredulous, finally forming the words, "It's your company, Thomas."

"That's why I've made this decision."

"We're married now," Mary said, disappointment invading her voice. He steeled himself against it, hating to hurt her, but unflinching in his decision. "You can't make decisions alone."

He was quiet, lighting a cigarette.

She shook her head. "Especially ones that affect both of us-"

"It's to keep you safe, Mary."

Her face fell, she released a pent up breath, "This again."

"Yes, again," Tommy returned, temper flaring, tired of explaining, again and again, that her saving was his keenest priority. "And again, and again," he continued. "For as long as I'm alive, if not longer."

She took a single, halting step forward, nearly pleading, "You have to let me in, Tommy."

His eyes resembled fresh sheets of ice, emotionless, expression detached.

"It's not enough to say you want me safe, you have to-"

"It's not open for discussion," he interrupted, draining his whiskey glass. Mary's face fell, hurt by his dismissal. When he offered nothing further, she turned on her heel, coat fluttering against her legs. He watched her go, flinching when she slammed the door, both hands fisted against his desktop.

* * *

Come midafternoon, when Tommy couldn't find Mary in any room of the house, or corner of their gardens, he phoned the office. Polly answered brusquely, he could hear commotion in the background.

"It's me, Poll."

"What now, Tom," she said. "It's the middle of the day-"

"Is Mary with you."

She hesitated long enough for him to divine the answer.

"This fucking woman," he snarled, fist meeting the top of his desk. "See that she stays there."

Before Polly could reply he'd hung up, blazing out the door and to his car. He was almost calm by the time he reached the Shelby office. Understanding he'd mishandled her departure, unable to tell her himself, as they'd arrived home from London too late. Tommy knew, despite his best efforts to deny it, he should have told her days ago. That his putting it off was the root of this mess. Parking outside, he finished his cigarette, stamping it beneath his booted heel. Birmingham was impossibly gray in contrast to Cheshire, and having seen London, a poor excuse for a city. Tommy felt his frustration rise up all over again, shoving both hands through his hair, cap unsettled onto the cobbles beneath him he squeezed his eyes shut. His new home and wife, the London expansion, Sabini and the races, the undeniable pain in his shoulder, leftover from Campbell's bullet coalesced. For the first time, in a long time, Tommy felt like he was drowning.

He collected his cap from the ground, steeling himself and his expression, disinterested in drawing attention. Upon entering the office, Esme and Polly shot him unflinching glares, wordlessly delivering their displeasure. Tommy returned their stares, offering, "Finally, something the two of you can agree on."

Esme issued a noise of discontent, while Polly ignored his snide remark all together. Tommy prowled deeper into the office, at the sight of Mary, sitting at her desk pouring over paperwork, his blood pressure shot sky high. When Polly stepped forward, a suggestion to relinquish some of his historic need for control on her lips, Tommy bypassed her. Mary didn't look up when he arrived on the opposite side of her desk. She was dressed in a dove gray blouse, hair relieved from her face by twin combs. Tommy bit back the immediate rush of desire at the sight of her. The cut of her shirt revealed the curvature of her breasts, she was wearing a familiar frown as she totaled figures. Fully clothed, performing simple math, and ignoring him completely, Mary still had the ability to rattle his sense. This woman, he was beginning to think, would surely be the death of him.

"Wife."

Mary looked up, face arranged in a placid expression, clearly unsurprised by the sight of him, "Thomas."

"Where's your replacement."

She pointed past his right side, indicating the desk beside Esme's. Tommy turned to follow the trajectory of her finger. Sure enough, the woman Tommy hired to hold his calendar and help with Garrison's books was there, head bent, working diligently.

"If you'd spoken to me before hiring her," Mary said, reclaiming his attention. "You'd know that I have no intention of quitting."

Tommy laid both hands flat to her desk, leaning a fraction closer, "I didn't speak to you, because it's not your decision to make."

Mary leaned back in her chair, arms folded neatly over her chest, "Yesterday you said this company was an equal opportunity enterprise."

"For Esme, maybe, if John sees fit," Tommy returned, nodding. "And Poll."

"And me," she pressed.

Tommy shook his head, voice tight, "I don't want you anywhere near this business."

Mary was quiet a moment, then, "Then why marry me."

Despite his fury, of one thing, Tommy was dead certain. He answered easily, "Because I wanted you."

Mary's brow lifted, "And what I want."

"Your safety will always come before your wanting."

Her smirk was humorless, "Then I'll ask again, why did you marry me, Thomas."

A muscle bunched along his jaw, tightening to tick, beguiling his slipping temper. When he made no reply, Mary returned to the ledger in front of her. She resumed her quick math, pencil scratching against paper. Tommy shut his eyes, seeking some semblance of control, curbing the urge to simply haul her over one shoulder and deliver her safely home.

Finally, he unscrewed his eyes and he cleared his throat, "Mary."

She paused to look up at him, brow lifted, the picture of innocence.

"Ask me how London was."

Carefully, Mary mimed his question, well aware he was laying a well oiled trap.

"We went to the Eden Club, owned by Darby Sabini," Tommy said. "And we picked a fight."

Mary shook her head, "I don't understand what that has to do with my working."

"I wanted to make sure Sabini knew we'd come," Tommy continued as though she hadn't spoken. In his mind's eye, he recalled the show they'd put on, the blood splatter against his coat and shoes, the blood beneath John's finger nails, the blood along the razors of Arthur's cap. In their wake destruction, an easy calling card for Sabini to follow. "I've put a target on our backs."

At this, Mary's brow furrowed, the first flicker of annoyance shot through her dark eyes, "You told us there was no danger in expanding into London."

"Not if we stay together," Tommy confirmed.

"Together," Mary repeated, eyes widening as she released a humorless laugh. "Then why send me away, why-"

He cut her off, "Part of staying together is listening, and following orders."

Mary sat back in her chair, caught in the tangled position of being his employee and his wife.

Tommy mistook her silence for begrudging defeat, straightening and extending a hand, "It's time to go, Mary."

Her expression transformed, fierce, "I won't be cooped up at home all day, because you have enemies-"

"Mary-"

When he made to cut her off she lifted a hand, silencing him, so she could continue, "Enemies born from choices you've made, that I don't agree with."

Tommy angled closer, crystalline eyes set to scorch, "It would be a mistake to test my patience."

She stared up at him, mutinous, unmoved.

"Force my hand, Mary," he ground out. "And I'll tie you to the fucking bedpost every morning before I leave."

"I won't be controlled like a child," she said, uneasy at his threat, but refusing to cower.

"A compromise, then," Tommy returned.

"What kind."

"I'll take you home," he replied, well past playing fair. "And we'll make one."

Mary made a noise of discontent.

"It's either that or I burn this whole fucking building to the ground," he warned, expression suggesting it was no idle threat. He meant to be heard, and have his way if he could manage it, consequences be damned.

After a long pause, Mary looked up, tone accusatory, "You told me we moved to the country for peace and quiet."

His glare intensified, he demanded, "Then explain to me what you're doing back in fucking Birmingham."

Mary pressed her lips together, refusing a response, knowing she was well out of civil things to say. Slamming the ledger shut, she tossed her pencil down, and stood. Tommy watched as she gathered her coat and hat, marching purposefully past him. As he followed her out the door and through the office, Polly observed their exit, barely curbing a smirk.

The ride to Cheshire was tense and quiet. When Tommy offered a cigarette, Mary accepted, only to pitch it directly out the window. After this display, Tommy endeavored to ignore her, until they arrived home. Tommy had no sooner pulled into the drive, barely bringing the car to a stop, before Mary was out the door and halfway to the house. He followed, slamming the door at his back, as he called her name. 

She paused, three quarters of the way to the second floor, to deliver a singular glare of one shoulder.

"We'll finish this," he said. "And be done with it."

"Finish it," Mary repeated, brow lifted. "You didn't need me to make your decision, Thomas, why would you need me to finish it."

"Don't walk away from me-"

When she did just that he released a noise of frustration. Tommy watched the steady switch of her ass disappear up the stairs and out of sight.

"Mary-"

The sound of their bedroom door shutting was the only response she offered.

Tommy swiped the cap off his head, shedding his coat next, dropping them both unceremoniously to the ground. Taking the stairs two at a time, he paused on the second floor landing. He inhaled an unsteady breath, recalling briefly, their wedding day. Polly's warning, that he'd finally met his match. While Tommy had always been a man who liked a challenge, he'd never expected to marry one.

When he entered their bedroom, she was seated on the edge of the bed, freed of her coat, busy removing the combs from her hair. Tommy closed the distance between them to crouch at her feet. He gathered her hands, despite her protest.

"Mary," he said. "I need you to look at me."

She complied, expression resigned.

"You've nearly been killed once in my name," he said, voice rough. "I won't allow that to happen again."

She regarded him silently, face unchanged.

"On our wedding day, I promised to protect you," he said. "No matter what the cost."

Her smile was humorless as she asked, "Even at my expense?"

"At the expense of anything and anyone," he returned, eyes burning. She withdrew her hands, standing to seek some space from him. He watched her retreat, moving to his feet but no closer, forcing himself not to follow her.

"You promised me honesty, Thomas."

He nodded, "Yes."

"I need you to tell me."

He stared at her, waiting.

"Tell me why you want me safe."

His brow knit, "You're my wife."

"If that were all, you wouldn't have given me a job, or gone after Ben when he lied," Mary said, shaking her head. "You wanted me safe, before you made me your wife."

Tommy held her gaze, replying evenly, "I loved you long before you agreed to be my wife, sweetheart."

"And you wanted me safe well before you made me your wife," she pressed. "I want to know why."

He understood, her question was born from believing the core of his love, was what he wanted to preserve most about her. That whatever it was could be shared, rather than exploited. She was demanding compromise in the face of his self-containment, his penchant for having his way without explanation. He was quiet a long time, considering her question, and his response.

Finally, he replied, "The last thing I saw before Campbell shot me, was your face." 

Some of the tension released from her body at his admission. He had never admitted to her, or anyone else, that he'd been prepared to die, thinking of her. And moreover, that the sight of her, in his mind's eye, had brought him certain comfort as he bled into the alley behind the Garrison.

"I saw you, as though you were standing in front of me," Tommy said, shaking his head. "Real enough to touch."

Mary waited, watching the frayed lines of his expression, as he relived that moment.

"You looked at me," he continued, offering a wry smile. "Just as you did the day I met you."

She frowned at this, "The day you propositioned me."

Tommy's smirk was slow, "I wanted you, then."

"Of all our time together," she shook her head. "Why that memory."

"I'll never forget the way you looked at me," Tommy replied. "You didn't care who I was, or what I wanted."

She paused, then, "I'm worth saving, because I'm not afraid of you."

"You're like no other woman I've met before," Tommy said, staring at her, the intensity of his gaze bringing a blush to her cheeks. "You've asked more of me-"

Mary's expression fell as he spoke, the line of her shoulders deflated.

Tommy broke off, mid-sentence to ask, "What's wrong."

"I've asked you to do things differently," she said. "And instead, you've handled this the same way you did my apartment, and Ben-"

He released a pent up breath, head bowed briefly, absorbing her words.

"I'm not one of your race horses, Tommy," she continued quietly. "I'm not just another thing to be handled."

"No," he agreed, voice rough. "You're my wife."

He crossed the room in two strides. Without laying a hand on her, he planted a kiss to her mouth, a singular connection delivered gently enough to make her gasp. When he broke the contact, stepping backwards, she had softened a fraction.

"You talk like a gangster," she offered quietly. "But you kiss like a gentleman."

His palm found the curve of her neck, "Kiss me, Mrs. Shelby," he instructed, thumb pressed to the button joint of her jaw, tipping her head. "Kiss me the way you want to be kissed."

She wore her married name with little expression, he imagined she was still taking it in. Desire ripened her cheeks, he followed the blush as it reached her neck. Her skin felt electric under his hand. When remained motionless, searching his eyes. Tommy waited, quiet, understanding there was more to say.

"Tell me you married me for more than sex."

He turned serious at this, "I married you, because I love you," he said, voice low. "I married you, because I wanted to make you mine."

"If I'm meant to be yours-"

Tommy's eyes narrowed a fraction, "It's no longer a question," he cut her off, a warning hung on each word. "You're mine."

"By law," she agreed, offering a singular nod. "But don't you want all of me."

"What are you withholding."

"Nothing," Mary replied. "At least not by choice."

"Tell me," Tommy said quietly.

"If you refuse to talk to me, Tommy," she said. "You'll lose me."

He felt her warning like a physical blow.

"Maybe not today, or tomorrow," she continued, touching his cheek, trying to soften the words. "But eventually."

Tommy shut his eyes for a moment, collecting his thoughts, then, "I'm not used to answering to anyone but myself."

Mary swallowed a smile at this, well aware of his solitary ways.

"John and Esme have one another, because you chose to deal with the Lee family differently," she said, offering a reminder of his redemptive capacity. "Not with blood, but by binding two families."

Tommy regarded her quietly, then, "I'm already bound to you, by blood and vow, Mary."

"Then I ask you to bind your heart to mine."

He shook his head, insistent, "It's already yours-"

"No," Mary interrupted. "Having your heart to hold isn't the same as knowing it, or knowing you for that matter."

He released a breath, then, "What do you want."

"For you to let me in."

They'd come full circle from their first exchange in his study. His desire for secure defenses and maintained power would no longer be tolerated. She wouldn't allow him to run their marriage as he did the Shelby Company. He bent his head, bringing them forehead to forehead, a gesture she'd come to adore.

"To let you in, to let you see-"

He broke off, eyes shut, quiet for a moment.

"Would make you vulnerable," she offered quietly.

Tommy returned a wry smile, "Shelby secrets."

"You'll find they're easier to hold between four hands," Mary said. "Instead than two."

He twined their fingers, taking her left hand into his own. Removing her wedding ring, Tommy held her gaze, "Mary Shelby, I promise to love, honor and, cherish you. I promise to be truthful and forthcoming. I promise to know you, and be known."

He replaced her ring, vows reborn, marriage renewed. Tears wet her lashes, at his sincerity, for the look in his eyes.

"I promise to be patient, Tommy."

"That's all I need, sweetheart."

Tommy took her into his arms, fusing their mouths, reminding himself again and again, it was possible to be known and loved at the same time.


	27. Chapter 27

A week after their firework show at the Eden Club, Tommy was stopped on his way out of the Garrison. He recognized the slick dark hair and city coats of Sabini's men. When they yanked him off the street and proceeded to shatter his ribs and carve the gold tooth from the back of his mouth, he briefly reconsidered his expansion plans. Hard pressed to deny they'd been risky, he tried to muster some degree of regret. Despite the pain, the blood coating the back of his throat, he realized with certainty, he was far from sorry. The rewards of his ambitions had yet to be eclipsed by the fallout, and today was no different. It was shortly after this, that the sound of an automatic weapon punctuated his fractured breathing. Tommy vaguely heard Arthur's voice above the noise. This timely intervention, made possible by one of the leftover guns from Campbell's stash, saved him. 

He was maneuvered, bloodied and barely breathing, into the back of the car. Arthur drove him straight to the hospital, John keeping pressure on the gash above his temple. Along the ride, he murmured incoherently, calling Mary's name time after time amid other garbled words.

"We'll tell her, Tom," Arthur reassured, repeatedly. "Don't worry."

Tommy released a wheezing breath, spitting blood, struggling to remain awake. Knowing Tommy wouldn't want his wife or property unchecked, after what had happened tonight, Arthur sent Charlie to guard the house, and Polly to watch over Mary. Charlie was posted outside, walking the perimeter with instructions to shoot trespassers on sight.

"Mary's in good hands," John said quietly, trying to keep Tommy conscious. "Polly's at the house."

He stared at John, bleary eyed, "Mary-"

"Poll would die before she let anyone get to your wife," Arthur intervened, skirting the final curb into the hospital's circular drive. "We're here, Tom."

After they managed Tommy inside and into a bed, doctors left to catalogue his injuries, Arthur phoned Polly with an update. Polly received the news in utter silence, unsure of what to say, no less do. Tommy's last brush with death had left them nearly irrecoverable, the thought of a repeat performance was unthinkable.

"How's Mary," Arthur asked, filling the quiet on the other end of the line.

"She's here," Polly said. "Climbing the walls."

Arthur made a noise of regret, "Wait until morning, Poll."

When Polly began to offer protest he cut her off, "She shouldn't see him like this."

"I'll tell her," she replied, resigned, trusting Arthur's judgement. Mary was in the great room, pacing the carpet when Polly appeared in the doorway. "Mary."

"Where is he."

"He's in the hospital," Polly said, forcing her voice calm. She lit a clove cigarette with shaking fingers, avoiding Mary's gaze.

"Poll-"

"It was Sabini's men," Polly said, inhaling. "He's had worse, but not by much."

"I need to see him."

"Arthur will bring us tomorrow."

Mary's face fell, "Tomorrow-"

"First thing," Polly reassured.

"How bad is he," she asked quietly, half afraid to hear the answer. Understanding implicitly that the decision to delay was meant for her benefit. Polly was quiet, cigarette seeping smoke.

"Polly, please."

"His ribs are shattered and his mouth's been cut up, he'll need stitches for the cut on his head," Polly relayed the information without looking at her, hazel eyes stuck on the far windows. From her expression, Mary knew it pained her to share Tommy's condition. "From the sounds of it, they meant to beat him to death."

Mary was motionless, absorbing this news, cheeks wan.

"I'll stay the night," Polly said, finally able to match Mary's gaze. "Arthur will be here first thing in the morning."

Polly sat down, eventually Mary mirrored the motion, arms locked around her waist.

"Do you think this will be the end of his plans to expand into London."

Polly answered easily, honestly, "No."

Mary shook her head, "Neither do I."

"He'll need a new strategy," Polly said. "If he intends to beat Sabini."

Mary offered a wry smile, "I don't think a wedding will work this time."

Polly offered a short laugh, grateful for the excuse, shaking her head, "No, love, I don't think it will."

They sat in silence most of the night, passing cigarettes and whiskey between them. At first light, Mary stationed herself at the front windows, watching for Arthur's arrival. When he pulled up, both women were waiting on the front steps, still shrugging on their coats. Polly slid into the car, Mary following, eyes on Arthur's face, trying to gauge his expression.

"How is he, Arthur," Polly asked immediately.

"He's alright."

Polly nodded, picking up Mary's hand and squeezing. They asked nothing further, understanding Arthur had no happy news to offer. The hospital was deathly quiet when they arrived, the halls mostly cleared of nurses and orderlies.

"He's alone," Polly said.

Arthur nodded, "Private room, right through here."

They rounded a final corner, John was just outside, smoking, cheeks pale from a sleepless night. Polly and Mary stepped inside the room, brought up short by the sight of Tommy. He was heavily bandaged from his neck down to his ribs, the cut along his scalp was stitched, still oozing blood in some places. Mary felt an unbidden rush of tears at the sight of him.

"According to the doctor, he'll make a full recovery," Arthur said quietly.

Mary nodded, unable to choke out any further response. Polly laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing, a small reassurance.

"He's been asking for you," John offered.

At this, she propelled herself forward, coming to stand by his bedside, "Tommy."

His eyes flickered open, revealing heavily dilated pupils, "Sweetheart."

She leaned close, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, "I'm here."

"You're safe," he said, relieved, as though he'd been waiting for confirmation all this time.

"Yes," she reassured him, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Polly took good care of me."

His smile looked more like a grimace. She winced at the visible effort it took for him to offer even that small emotional response.

"You should sleep, Tommy."

"I'll be home soon."

He was already drifting in and out of consciousness. She held his hand, finally allowing her tears to fall, now that he wasn't awake to see her. The Shelby's at her back stood guard in the doorway as she murmured promises, and threatened to kill him herself if he saw fit to leave this earth without her permission.

* * *

Two weeks later, when Polly and Mary arrived at the hospital for their daily visit, they were dismayed to find Tommy out of bed and halfway dressed. He'd lost weight since the attack, sinewy muscles reduced, cheeks run gaunt. His tattoo appeared black against his chest, in stark contrast to his parlor.

"Tommy-"

He looked up at the sound of Mary's voice, a fine sheen of sweat covered his forehead.

His expression relaxed at the sight of her, "Mary."

Polly surveyed the room, eyes narrowed, well adjusted to her nephew's antics, "What are you doing, Tom."

"I need to get home."

"Any particular reason for the rush," Polly demanded.

"The doctor said you have another three weeks until you're recovered," Mary said, coming to stand beside him.

"I'm fine," he replied, yanking on his shirt, fumbling with the buttons.

Mary lifted a hand, knuckles brushing his forehead, "You're feverish-"

"I told you, I'm fine," he said, pushing her hand aside.

"Thomas-"

He stilled at this, knowing better than to ignore her when she employed his full name. He cupped her face, holding her gaze, "It's time for me to come home."

"What's happened," she said, searching his expression. "That you're in such a rush."

"I miss my wife."

She made a face, "Tommy, please-"

"Business," he said, relenting.

"What kind."

"Urgent."

"According to who," Polly cut in.

"Poll-"

"We'll take you home," Mary interrupted. "And you'll tell me what's going on."

He held her gaze, then began to nod, "You have a deal, Mrs. Shelby."

Mary assisted Tommy in pulling on the remainder of his clothes, mindful of his many injuries. By the time they'd finished, he was breathing heavily, mouth pinched at the corners, beguiling his rising pain level. Knowing better than to ask if he'd changed his mind, Mary turned, seeking Polly's gaze.

"You'll drive us home, Polly, please."

Polly offered a half-hearted agreement, unsure if Tommy was well enough to travel. The hospital staff offered lukewarm protest, not wanting to be on the wrong side of Shelby, but disinterested in being blamed if he dropped dead halfway through Birmingham. The ride to Cheshire was quiet, Tommy struggled to stay awake, despite Mary's insistence he should sleep.

When Polly delivered them home, she snatched up Mary's coat sleeve before she could slip out of reach, "You'll call if he's any trouble."

Mary bit back a smirk at her phrasing, then nodded, "I will, Poll."

Polly released her, pacified, watching them through the front doors before pulling away. Mary guided Tommy upstairs and into bed, removing his coat and shirt. As she pulled the sheets to his waist, dousing the lists, he began to protest, "I promised to talk-"

"You'll rest," Mary interrupted, shaking her head. "And then we'll talk."

Tommy nodded, eyes already drifting shut. Mary stayed beside him, keeping a cool cloth pressed to his forehead as the sky turned to twilight. Finally convinced he was sleeping fitfully, she stood, smoothing the sheets around him.

"Mary."

She startled at the sound of his voice, "I'm right here, Tommy."

"Sleep beside me," he commanded quietly.

"Your ribs-"

"I'm not asking," he interrupted, tone brooking no further argument. Mary shed her blouse, loosening her skirt until she could drop it over her hips. The sheets were cool beneath her bare skin, she lay beside him, cheek to the side of his neck, mindful of his battered body.

He released a breath, relaxing a fraction, "Fuck I've missed you."

She pressed closer, refusing the urge to cry at what could have happened at the hands of Sabini's men. They lay together, Tommy sleeping, dreamlessly, while Mary listened to the steady rhythm of his heart, thankful for the sound.


	28. Chapter 28

On the third day of Tommy's return home from the hospital, Mary awoke to an empty bed. Briefly panicked, she sat up, calling his name. When he made no reply, she dressed quickly, going directly to his study. Tommy was behind his desk when she arrived, wearing a fresh white shirt, collar undone to expose the pulse point at the base of his throat. He'd regained color in his cheeks, but his bandaged upper body forced him into slow motion. She watched him light a cigarette, coming steadily closer.

"You're up early," she said.

"I had business to see to," he replied.

Mary reached for her usual chair, positioned just left of Tommy's desk. She frowned, it was angled badly, facing the windows, fully away from Tommy. As she replaced it, easing each leg into their respective grooves in the carpet, she recalled moving it in a wild effort to give Tommy something to bed her over. Looking at him now, fresh from the hospital, it felt like a lifetime ago. Though, long ago or not, she felt the ghost of his hands along her hips, the feel of the plush cushion beneath her own palms, as he fucked her. 

"Mary."

She looked up, cheeks ripening as she met Tommy's gaze. He looked pointedly from her to the chair, clearly reliving the same heady memory. Mary cleared her throat, sitting down, ignoring his smirk, "What business did you have, Tommy."

His expression turned serious, she begrudged him that easy switch between wanton and work. Her own cheeks still carried color, pulse singing.

"I've written a letter to Winston Churchill."

Mary's brow shot up, "Churchill, himself?"

"Yes," Tommy replied around an exhale of smoke. Mary watched the muscles of his throat constrict with the effort, tendons vibrating. "I've requested an export license."

"Are you planning another expansion."

He nodded, "There's money to be made in exports."

"Legal money," Mary said, watching him carefully.

"Once I have an export license in hand," he nodded.

"Why would Churchill grant you one," she asked, still trying to connect the logic behind his letter.

"Churchill gave Inspector Campbell his marching orders for Birmingham," Tommy replied, dousing his cigarette. "My letter describes the deal Campbell made with me to retrieve the Crown's guns, his relationship with Kimber, and I've included the death certificate Campbell forged with my name."

Mary felt a wave of panic, "You mean to blackmail a government official."

Tommy shook his head, "Bargain, not blackmail, Mary."

"What's the difference."

"I'm an honest man, seeking an honest living," Tommy returned, brow lifted. "What's to refuse."

Mary made no reply, well aware, her own moral compass had seen fit to waver beneath his charm.

"It's information, Mary," he said, tone softening. "There's no harm in sharing it."

"And that information is worth an export license," she asked, unconvinced. From the look on Tommy's face, she wagered he'd already fought with this question. In his prolonged silence, she added, "This is why you discharged yourself from the hospital."

"I told you why I came home," Tommy replied, leaning back in his chair, blue eyes buzzing the line of her throat, and lower. "I missed my wife."

Mary bit back a smile, tone serious, "Tommy."

"Yes," he relented. "I came home to send this letter."

"Does this mean you're finished with London," she said, daring to be hopeful. "And Sabini-"

"Not finished, no," Tommy shook his head.

"What, then," Mary pressed.

"We'll beat Sabini at the races," he said, reaching for another cigarette, wincing with the effort. Mary rose to her feet, picking up his cigarettes and matches, taking a seat on the corner of his desk. Tommy ran his hand up the length of her leg, from ankle to knee, skirt snared around his wrist.

Mary lit a cigarette between her own lips, then handed it to Tommy, "Explain it to me."

"The same way we took Kimber apart," he replied, fingers drumming the side of her thigh. "From the inside."

She studied him, working to chase the worry from her eyes.

"You seem to have everything figured out."

Tommy released a breath, palm floating to her hip to draw her free of his desk. He positioned her between his split thighs, arms roping her waist as he pressed his cheek to the front of her shirt. Mary draped her arms carefully along his shoulders, fingers running his exposed scalp just above the collar of his shirt.

"I'm nearly there, Mary," he said after a while.

Mary smiled at this rare show of fallibility. Silently, she deposited a kiss to his forehead, before leaving him to his work.

* * *

Over the next two weeks Tommy healed quickly, despite the severity of his injuries. Before long he was taking the drive to and from Birmingham, to be in and out of the Shelby office every day. The first family meeting he arranged after his return home ended in arguing. Tommy's insistence that London was still an option, simply by other means, was protested by Polly and Arthur respectively.

"You're barely out of the hospital and you're ready for more," Polly shook her head, smoked haloed around her head.

Tommy ignored Polly's protest to explain, "I've sent word to Winston Churchill, offering information in exchange for legal exporting rights."

Arthur made a noise of discontent, "What's that have to do with bloody London, Tom."

"It's more money," Tommy replied easily. "And with it, leverage."

"And the races," Mary said, brow lifted, remembering their previous conversation. Hoping that this more familiar branch of his strategy would be met with less opposition.

"I have plans to purchase another horse," Tommy nodded.

Polly made a noise of disgust, "We're stretched too thin as it is, Thomas."

Tommy offered no reply, shaking out a cigarette, taking his time to light it. In his silence, Polly continued, counting off his current endeavors, "London, the races, now Churchill-"

"All towards the same goal," Tommy interrupted, patience finally running thin.

"What's the point of talking," Polly demanded. "When the only one who's meant to make decisions, is the last man to listen."

Tommy's expression iced.

"Poll's right, Tom," Arthur shook his head. "This is too much."

There was a lengthy quiet, all eyes on Tommy.

When he finally spoke, his voice was steeled against further arguments, "When I proposed the London expansion, I gave every one of you a chance to walk out that door," he said, one hand planted to the tabletop, the other extended towards the street. "That opportunity has come and gone."

Mary stiffened, "Tommy-"

"You chose to stay and be a part of this," he continued, eyes set to burn, ignoring Mary's warning. "So enough fucking complaining. The expansion continues, as planned."

The room was deathly quiet.

"Alright, Poll," Tommy demanded, teeth clenched. She offered a perfunctory nod, turning away to reach for her coat. When Tommy turned to Arthur, he was shaking his head. "Arthur-"

"I heard you, brother," Arthur said, lifting a hand. "I heard you."

Tommy straightened, nodding, "Good, then that's the last we'll speak of it."

Polly slammed out the door, offering no further comment. Arthur was quick to follow, while John and Esme retreated to the back office. Mary kept her eyes on Tommy, watching as he lit a cigarette, expression grim.

After his first exhale, he announced evenly, "I'm going to find Arthur."

"I think you should wait," Mary replied carefully. "Give him a minute to-"

He cut her off, "I don't have time to fucking wait."

She stood at this, facing him squarely, "He's your brother, Thomas, and he'd do anything for you. This is the least you can do in return."

Tommy snapped up the distance between them, "I intend to make every single one of them rich," he said, jabbing his finger to indicate the belly of the Shelby office. "The least they could do is trust my judgement-"

"They do," Mary replied. "They wouldn't be here, if they didn't."

"Do they," he demanded, brow hiked. "Doesn't fucking sound like it-"

"Trust doesn't mean blindly following someone, Tommy," she cut in, taking his face in her hands. "Trust means that you believe in what they can do."

He released a pent up breath, shoulders depressing a fraction. His hand lifted to the back of her head, drawing her cheek to his chest.

"Talk to them," Mary suggested, quietly. "Talk to them like you need them here, not as though they're your prisoners."

"They chose to stay."

"Yes," she replied. "Because of you."

Tommy fell quiet at this, resigned to the fact his methods may have been extreme under the circumstances.

"It's easy to forget we're here for love, Tommy."

"You and I," he affirmed.

"All of them," she leaned back to catch his gaze. "Every single Shelby is here for love, not money."

His expression was unreadable, weighing her words against his family's baser instincts. Finally, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, forever grateful for a wife with a cooler head than his own.

"I'll see you at home," she said, replacing her hat and coat.

"Charlie's outside," Tommy said. "He'll take you back."

As promised, Charlie was waiting in the street. When he moved to open the car door, Mary shook her head, "I need to see Poll, first."

"She went towards the Garrison," Charlie replied. Mary walked the short distance to the pub, coat clutched around her against the wind. Polly was at the bar, glass in one hand, clove cigarette in the other.

"Poll."

She didn't turn at the sound of Mary's voice, instead demanded, "Did he send you."

"No," Mary shook her head, undeterred by her temper. "You should know me better than that."

Polly released a breath, by way of apology, offered her cigarette. As Mary removed her hat and coat, Polly angled towards her, prepared to listen.

"He's frightened, Poll."

"He bloody should be," Polly returned, unmoved.

"He resents that we questioned his plans for London," Mary said, understanding all too well the root of Tommy's temperament. "And now that Sabini's shown his hand, he's afraid Esme, John, and you and I, were right all along."

Polly blew a stream of smoke between them, "Sabini's men could have killed him."

"I know," Mary nodded. "And Tommy knows it, too."

"If he doesn't learn to listen to anyone besides himself," Polly replied. "It'll be the death of him."

Mary closed her eyes against this thought, unable to fathom a world without her husband beside her.

"I need him, Poll."

Polly softened at Mary's admission, offering, "More than you know, Mary Shelby."

Her eyes unscrewed to seek Polly's gaze, brow knit.

"When's the last time you bled."

Mary's cheeks brightened at Polly's question, embarrassed, "It's been a month, maybe two."

Polly waited, watching the slow evolution of her expression. From confusion, to slow realization, but where Polly anticipated joy, Mary's face beguiled panic.

"I'm pregnant-"

"I've been dreaming of a child for weeks," Polly said, palm eclipsing Mary's stomach.

"How can you be sure it's mine and Tommy's."

Polly offered a wry smile, "She has the bluest eyes I've ever seen."

Mary sat down heavily, hand covering Polly's, fingers interlacing, seeking comfort. When tears wet her lashes, Polly's opposite hand lifted to tilt her chin, "What's the matter, Mary."

"What will Tommy say-"

Polly made a noise of frustration, "You think he'll be angry."

Mary shook her head, unsure what to think. In his plans for London and Sabini, and his letters to Churchill, he hadn't factored in a family.

"Poll, what if he's not ready for a baby."

"He truly is a fool, then," Polly replied evenly.

Mary closed her eyes, breathing deeply, steadying her pulse. She imagined Tommy, arms carved around a small bundle, the encapsulation of their better qualities delivered into one tiny human. As hard as she tried, she couldn't smother the residual fear that Tommy's life wasn't built for having and holding a family. As Polly pulled her into an embrace, Mary squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself calm.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So so sorry for the delay in updating! The last two weeks have kicked my butt between work and school. Thanks for reading, comments are always appreciated :)

Mary grappled unsteadily with the knowledge she was pregnant, erring between excitement and uncertainty. As Tommy's mood continued to degenerate, she put off telling him, disinterested in adding to whatever was weighing on his mind. She sought out Polly instead, still disbelieving that Polly had known her body before she'd come to know it herself. They spent the afternoons together in Cheshire, keeping one another company in Tommy's continued absence. Polly slowly unspun the story of her own children, taken from her at a young age, revealing a heartache Mary hoped she would never face.

"He's getting worse."

It was early evening, shadows just beginning to haunt the walls of the great room. Polly smoked by the windows, expression fraught. She wore cranberry, fingers dazzled with rings, looking every inch a gypsy queen. Mary sat across the room, both hands wrapped around a mug of tea, specially brewed by Polly. She remained quiet, mouth to the hip of her cup, not bothering to deny Polly's assessment of her husband.

"Have you spoken to him," Polly pressed, brow lifted as she turned to face her.

Mary shook her head. "He shuts himself in his office almost every night."

"It's time you tell him," Polly said, eyes pointedly dripping to Mary's stomach. She crossed the room to unburden her cigarette into the ashtray. "Waiting won't help anything."

"I'd like to know what's on his mind, before I add any more worry-"

"A child isn't a worry."

"Maybe not for another man," Mary returned, shaking her head. "But Tommy-"

"Isn't so different," Polly interrupted, disinterested in excuses. After a moment, her face broke into a wry smile, "Even if you were the first woman in Birmingham to tell him so."

Mary drained her mug, buying herself a moment of silence.

"If you intend to wait until he has nothing else on his mind, you'll be waiting a long time," Polly warned.

"I'll talk to him," Mary relented. Polly offered a resounding nod, pleased by her progress. Mary eased back in her chair, reliving the last family meeting, thinking of Tommy's grand plans for expansion. It was no wonder the man couldn't sleep. She felt a familiar prick of panic at the thought of adding more to his burdened shoulders.

"He'll be happy, Mary."

Mary looked up, accepting Polly's words as promise, offering a smile. Before either woman could say more, they were interrupted by the sound of the front door. They turned their conversation benign, Polly already reaching for her coat, while Mary silently willed her to stay.

Tommy appeared shortly after, halfway to calling Mary's name as he opened the door. His hair was windswept, eyes brightened by the dark circles beneath them. His recovery, despite his early departure from the hospital, had continued steadily. Now, he'd regained some weight, and barely winced when he walked. Mary stood to greet him, hiding her anxiousness behind a smile. He relaxed at the sight of her, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Long day," she said, chin tipped to catch his gaze. He nodded absently, lighting a cigarette. Looking at them now, Mary thought absently, you'd never imagine she was withholding secrets.

"It's late," Polly said, coat slung over each shoulder, reaching for her hat.

Mary moved beside her, squeezing her hand, "I'll see you tomorrow, Poll."

Polly nodded, gaze pointed, silently willing the other woman to unburden her news. Mary released her hand, watching Tommy lead Polly through the doorway and onto the front steps. Charlie was outside, prepared to drive her home. When he returned to the great room, Mary had returned to her seat by the fire, hands extended towards the warmth.

"You're home early," she said, eyes on the blaze, counting colors as they leapt against the iron grates.

"I have something to tell you."

Mary turned in her chair, offering her full attention, "What it is."

He was angled towards the windows, watching Charlie and Polly drive up the road, taillights quickly fading to nothing. The silence stretched between them, Mary shifted in her chair, growing wary of what he had to say.

"Tommy."

"I received word from Churchill," he said, expression unreadable in profile. "He's requested my services."

Mary frowned, "What kind-"

"He's asked me to carry out an assassination."

The line of her shoulders stiffened, "He's asked you to kill for him."

"For the Crown."

"No."

Tommy turned at this, taking in her terrorized expression. Mary pushed out of her chair, shaking her head, "You contacted Churchill for an export license, not this."

"Mary-"

"This isn't the kind of business expansion you were talking about.

"No," Tommy allowed, expelling a pent up breath. "No, it's not, but if I can secure Churchill's favor, it'll be worth it."

"I disagree."

"An export license is only the beginning, if I-"

"Haven't you seen enough blood," Mary demanded, cutting him off, disinterested in platitudes and pacification. She was angry, angry with his ruthlessness in the face of opportunity, angry that he'd been asked to debase himself in the name of business. "How many men do you have to kill to be satisfied-"

Tommy's expression reorganized into tight lines, eyes relaying a silent warning.

"When will you be satisfied-"

"It has nothing to do with satisfaction," he cut in, equally angry. "For as long as men have their guns pointed at me, I'll be prepared to fire first."

Mary shook her head, "And when will it end, Tommy."

When she turned away, prepared to retreat until his temper cooled, Tommy snapped up her bicep, forcing her to a stop. She resisted, and his grip tightened to sting. Immediately Mary sought his gaze, "You're hurting me."

Tommy released her as though burned, regretting his roughness. He sank into the chair at his back, head in his hands for a half a minute. Mary stayed perfectly still, eyes on his bowed head. Finally, he straightened, seeking her gaze, "Sweetheart."

She softened, unintentionally, at his endearment. Tommy reached out, taking her hand gently in his, guiding her into his lap. She complied, relaxing against him, as he traced the line of her cheek with his knuckles, "I'm sorry, Mary."

"I want an answer, Tommy," she said quietly. "When will enough be enough."

"Think about what Churchill is offering, Mary."

"I have," she nodded.

"It's-"

"Dangerous," she interrupted.

"I believe the payout is worth the risk," Tommy returned, holding her gaze.

"Are there no other men in Birmingham he could ask."

As soon as the words left her mouth, Mary understood her misstep. Churchill's request wasn't made lightly, nor had he selected Tommy at random. Before Tommy could reply, she offered, a humorless smile tipping her lips, "Of course there are, which is all the more reason for you to do it."

"If not me," Tommy said. "Churchill will turn to the next man in line."

"And your export license could be his."

"It's possible," he nodded. Mary understood, he wasn't willing to let his opportunity pass him by. He'd weighed the risk, measured the cost, and believed he was to come out on top. In the wake of his honesty, Mary mustered her own courage. Clearing her throat, she changed tracks, "I have news, too."

Tommy leaned back to hook her gaze, brow lifted, "Tell me."

"I'm pregnant."

He stared at her, halfway disbelieving, repeating, "Pregnant."

"It was Polly who told me," Mary said, palming her stomach, shaking her head. "She's been dreaming of blue eyed babies."

His silence stretched, and in her uncertainty she continued to fill it.

"Can you believe, Polly's known for weeks, and I barely know now-"

"Mary."

She paused, looking up to meet his gaze, "Yes, Tommy."

"What else did Poll say."

"It's a girl."

Tommy looked as though the wind had been knocked out of him. Mary removed herself from his lap, unable to read his reaction, panic beginning to seep into her expression. He followed the motion, reeling her back into his arms. When he kissed her thoroughly, she relaxed a fraction, feeling his racing heart against her own.

"Tommy-"

He leaned back, expression reverent, like a man seeing water for the first time.

"Are you happy," she said, steeled for his answer, finally voicing the question she'd dreaded all along.

"Happier than I thought I could be," he replied honestly, overcome at this realization. He held her fiercely, both elated and frightened by this newfound vulnerability. He pressed a kiss to her temple, murmuring, "The vows I made to you, are the same ones I'll make to our child."

"Truth, and cherishing," she said.

"And to love and protect," he returned.

Mary leaned back to cup his cheek, memorizing his sweet expression. Endeavored to remembering the way he looked, she wanted to hold this memory close to her heart from this moment forward.

"I love you, Mary."

"Forever," she said, smiling.

Tommy shook his head, promising, "Longer."

* * *

Mary awoke to an empty bed. She'd been vaguely aware of Tommy's leaving, well before the sun had risen. After their respective news the night before, Tommy had taken her straight upstairs. Loving her gently until nearly midnight before extinguishing the lights. She'd slept fitfully, aware of Tommy beside her, tossing and turning.

As she made her way out of bed, she caught of glimpse of herself in the mirror above her vanity. Tommy's attentions had worked her hair into an unmanageable tangle. She stared at her reflection a moment longer than usual, searching for some indication she carried another life inside of her. She twisted sideways, hands to her flat stomach, envisioning its slow ripening. Eventually she moved on from the mirror, donning a blouse and plum purple skirt.

The house was entirely empty, she knew without even calling Tommy's name. Pulling on her coat, Mary stepped outside, squinting in the early morning sun. Charlie was smoking, cap pulled low, next to Tommy's car along the side property. He offered a gruff good morning, gesturing to indicate Tommy's whereabouts.

The stables were cool, dappled in midmorning light. Tommy turned at the sound of her heels against the stone floors. She was surprised by the sight of a striking black horse taking up the main stall, surely the reason for Tommy's early departure. She moved closer, admiring the silken ears and big black eyes.

"He's beautiful," she lifted a hand to the horse's velvety nose.

Tommy nodded, admiring the animal, then, "Once he's properly trained, we'll take him to the races."

"What did you name him."

"Dangerous."

Mary stilled, holding the animal's tender gaze, repeating softly, "Dangerous."

Tommy lit a cigarette, shaking out the match. He had hollows beneath both eyes, confirming he'd barely slept, if at all, beside her.

Mary met his gaze, brow knit, "You look tired, Tommy."

"It was an early morning," he replied, easily, tucking stray curls behind her ear. Then, with a slow grin, "And a late night."

She blushed, head tilted to one side as she asked, "Worth the lost sleep."

"Well worth it, Mrs. Shelby," he returned, thumb rubbing the line of her cheekbone, as though he could lift and carry the color on his own skin.

"When do you expect to hear from Churchill," she asked softly.

Tommy exhaled, "Soon, I'd imagine."

Mary nodded absently, expression suggesting she had more to say.

"What's on your mind," he asked, tipping her chin to search her gaze. "Tell me."

"When you receive your assignment," she said slowly, worry written in the line of her mouth. "How will you know if it's someone who deserves to die."

Tommy stilled, electric eyes shuttering as he admitted, "I expect I won't."

"It's not right, you nor Churchill should play god-"

"Mary," he said, cupping her face, cigarette discarded at their feet so he could hold her properly. "I'll do this for him, and no more."

She stared up at him, hopeful and frightened, hand lifting unconsciously to her stomach. Thought drifting immediately and easily to their child, and what life would be like without a father. Tommy sensed her train of thought, the palm of his hand warming hers, blunt fingers pressed to the front of her coat.

"Don't forget," he said, a promise. "I have a lot to live for, Mary Shelby."

It was the first time in recent memory he'd admitted his life was worth holding onto. Mary took it as a sign of changing times. She pushed onto her toes, arms circling his shoulders to hold him fiercely. Deluding herself, for a short while, into thinking that alone would be enough to save him from himself.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excited to finally have an update - already working on the next chapter! It's taken me a little while because I've started to revisit the first 29 chapters to edit/update. So far, chapters 1, 2, 6, 19, 21, 22, 23, 24, 26, 29 have received the most revisions and/or additions.
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting :)

The races at the Epsom track were selected as the Blinders opportunity to overthrow Sabini's regime, allotting them two months time to plan. Tommy marked the calendar with a black star as a reminder of what was rapidly approaching. When Mary pressed him as to why he'd selected that track and date, Tommy admitted it hadn't been his choice at all.

"It was Churchill's, Mary."

At the sound of Churchill's name, Mary fought to maintain a neutral expression. They were in his office, watching sunset and the belly of the moon trade places. The daytime had been surprisingly balmy, Mary spent much of it knelt in the garden, planting and weeding respectively. When Tommy arrived home he joined her, briefly dirtying his hands with roots and soil. Eventually, the weather turned cool as sundown approached, driving them both indoors. Standing in his office now looking outside, Mary could see the progress they'd made, the faint imprints of their knees in the dirt.

"Will you tell me who it is," she asked quietly.

Tommy shook his head, "No, Mary."

"I'll know soon enough," she reasoned, chin lifted to search his face.

"I won't have you implicated in any of this," Tommy returned, mind made up. Mary accepted his decision, attention returned to the sky. After a few beats of quiet, Tommy leaned in, lips brushing her temple, "In two months, it'll be done, and we won't speak his name again."

Mary closed her eyes, willing his words true. In two months time, she'd be more than halfway through her pregnancy. It was still hard to imagine what motherhood would be like, how it would expand her existence. And the thought of Tommy, child in tow, was harder still to envision. There were more nights than not that she lay sleepless, trying to successfully reimagine his life around a little girl. It wasn't his love that she doubted, but his ability to distance himself from the Blinders.

"You're quiet," Tommy said, watching her intently, cigarette between his lips.

Mary offered him an easy smile, keeping her thoughts to herself, replying instead, "I was thinking two months isn't such a long time."

Tommy nodded absently, otherwise quiet. Mary studied her hands, despite gloves, gardening had left faint streaks of dirt up her right palm.

"Are you frightened," Tommy asked, suddenly.

"Frightened," Mary repeated, tasting the word, testing it against her tongue. Shaking her head after a moment, as she replied, "Of what."

"Thinking about our child."

"No," Mary answered honestly. "Not since I told you."

Tommy said nothing, motionless, eyes trained on the star salted sky.

"Are you," she said, studying his profile. He was wearing a worn white undershirt, the trio of buttons between his collar bones pulled open. Mary could see the shadow of crisp hair beneath, in her mind's eye she knew where the lines of his tattoo began. Following the singular cut of his jaw, up the curvature of his lips and nose, she was surprised, when she reached his eyes, to find them shut, brow knit. Mary moved to stand in front of him, palms lifted to his chest. "What's wrong, Tommy."

"What kind of father will I be."

Mary tipped her head to one side, considering his question before offering, "Gentle."

His eyes unscrewed, haunted, "Tell me the truth."

She was taken aback by his expression, "Tommy-"

He sank into the chair at his back, head dropped into his hands, before she could say anything further. The line of his shoulders spoke to defeat. Mary immediately crouched in front of him, trying to hook his attention, but he'd shut his eyes again.

"Tommy Shelby," she said, gripping his wrists in either hand, feeling the sinewy tendons of his arm beneath her fingers. "I wouldn't have married you if I didn't want your children."

"And Churchill wouldn't have chosen me for this assassination, if he believed I was a better man."

At this admission, Mary stilled, sorry for the burden he carried, but well aware he'd chosen to shoulder it.

"Are you frightened for our child," she said quietly. "Or of what Churchill has asked of you."

Tommy lifted his head, reaching for whiskey, but Mary tempered the motion. Accepting her rebuff, he leaned back in his chair, releasing an unsteady breath. After a moment's pause, he lifted his hands between them, his wedding ring flickered in the light.

"I'm frightened of what these hands are capable of," he returned, voice roughened with emotion. "Of what they've done, and what they plan to do."

Mary tipped forward onto her knees, reaching for him. She pressed his left hand to her cheek, holding it lovingly. The pads of his fingers were rough against her skin, he smelled like smoke, and vaguely of soil from their garden.

"These hands," she began, seeking his gaze. "Are the same hands that saved me from Ben, and handed me a key to a safer apartment in Birmingham. They pulled me out of my first fight at the Garrison."

He offered a humorless laugh at this, remembering that night well. He'd barely removed her from harm's way, and while Mary had suffered a split lip, it might have been worse without his timely intervention.

"They've written me beautiful love letters," Mary said, eyes welling with tears thinking of his carefully penned notes. At her expression, Tommy's defenses began to weaken. She watched the slow softening of his expression, grateful her words were reaching him. "These hands took mine on our wedding day, and promised to hold them from that moment forward," she continued, eyes bright, brimming with adoration. "These hands belong to the man I love."

"Mary-"

"I'm not frightened, Tommy," she said, shaking her head. "Because I have you-"

Tommy gathered her into his chest, unwilling to wait another second to hold her. He ducked his head, mouth traversing the side of her neck, teeth nipping the lobe of her ear, "What have I done to deserve you, Mary Shelby."

Mary looped her arm behind his shoulders, opposite hand running the expanse of his chest. His mouth connected to hers, insistent, one hand tangled in her hair. When Mary's fingers hooked the front of his pants, charting an exploratory track along the band of skin just below his stomach, Tommy groaned. She grinned, lips tilting against his at his reaction. Before she could undo his belt, Tommy's grip loosened.

"Stand up," he commanded quietly. Mary untangled from his embrace, lifting off of his lap to stand before him. Tommy leaned back, blue eyes simmering. "Strip for me, Mrs. Shelby."

She blushed, remembering the first time he'd made that heady request. It was the morning she'd run from Alfie's warehouse and Ben's unwanted attention. When she arrived at the Garrison, he'd surveyed her dishevelment, with a keen mixture of indifference and annoyance. At the time, she'd wrongly assumed he'd been frustrated with her interruption. Looking back, it was her ripped shirt and bloodied lip that he took issue with.

Taking a steadying breath, Mary's hands lifted to the front of her blouse. She undid the buttons, as Tommy watched the slow reveal of her iridescent slip. The outline of her breasts were visible, rosy nipples tenting the thin fabric. She unhooked her skirt, letting it puddle at her feet.

"The slip," Tommy said hoarsely, eyes drifting between the lithe of her legs and the peaks of her breasts. Mary slid one strap and then the other over her shoulders, the fabric slipped like gossamer to the ground. She stood before him, naked, save her wedding band. Tommy was quiet, even after months of marriage, the sight of his wife's delicate body was hypnotizing. Mary shivered beneath his gaze, vaguely aware of the easy transmutation of power between two people, one clothed and one not.

"Turn around," Tommy instructed. Mary did as he asked, turning towards his desk, both palms planted to the dark wood. She was breathless, tortured, to be naked and untouched by his hands. He stood, positioning himself behind her, hands skirting the line of her hips, squeezing briefly, before traveling higher. She felt the insistent press of his erection against her hip, anticipation weakening her knees.

"Tommy-"

Mary's head fell back against his shoulder when his hands eclipsed her breasts, pressing, fingers seeking her nipples. Eventually, his left hand dipped low, tracking a steady path to the apex of her thighs. Mary squirmed under his touch, sensations spiraling. He stroked her center, bringing her steadily closer to satisfaction, before releasing her entirely. Mary issued a noise of protest, tipping her chin to one shoulder to catch his gaze.

"In a hurry, sweetheart," he asked, brow lifted around a slow smirk. As he spoke, he undid the buckle of his belt and unbuttoned his pants. When Mary moved to face him, he shook his head, instructing, "Keep your hands on the desk."

She complied, palms pressed against the wood-top, as he nudged her legs further apart. Poised at her entrance, Tommy's hands spanned her waist, tilting her hips against his. Mary held her bottom lip between her teeth, waiting, awash with wanting. His strokes were shallow and deliberately slow at first. Mary curbed the urge to beg, knowing he'd take his time either way. When he finally sheathed himself to the hilt, finger dug into her hips, he released a resounding groan. Mary rolled her hips, driving him deeper, breathing heavily.

"Tommy-"

"Tell me what you want," he demanded, mouth brushing the shell of her ear.

"Faster," she murmured. Tommy complied, grip tightening along her waist, hips pounding against her backside. When her orgasm bloomed, she came with a cry, body rippling, insides squeezing him. Tommy slowed, waiting until her breathing reset and blush receded to turn her in his arms. 

"More," he said softly, awaiting her answer, mouth feathering along her jawline. Her dark eyes flickered open, hands braced to his shoulders, in her expression an affirmation. He took her again, seated on the lip of his desk. He braced one hand to the base of her spine, the other planted atop a stack of paperwork next to her hip. By the time she was claimed by a second shuddering release, Tommy quick to follow, her body was draped in a fine sweat.

Tommy reached up, thumb running the lush of her bottom lip.

"Satisfied, Mary."

Her smile was vaguely feline, "Yes."

Tommy eased backwards to button his pants, leaving the belt undone at his hips. Mary slid both feet onto the floor, watching as he collected her discarded clothes.

"Take me to bed," Tommy commanded quietly, clothes bundled under his arm, opposite hand extended. Mary married their palms, pulling him through his office and down the darkened hallway to their bedroom. Outside the moon lit their mostly tended gardens in butter yellow light.


	31. Chapter 31

On the eve of the Epsom races, Tommy called a family meeting. The Shelby's assembled, pouring whiskey between them, cigarettes in hand. Tommy stood behind his desk, surveying the room as they waited on John and Esme. Mary sat to Arthur's right, expression a mixture of resigned and worried. She wore a lightly patterned scarf through her hair, an attempt, he was sure, to manage her unruly curls. Tommy's mouth twitched against a smile as he counted escaped ringlets, already brushing her temples and neck. He sought her gaze, holding it for a moment, trying to convey some semblance of reassurance.

Two months had passed quickly, issuing in a damp spring. Tommy spent the weeks consumed with plans for Epsom and spending as much time possible with Mary. Pregnancy agreed with her, she was radiant, despite her bout with morning sickness. The slow growing slope of her stomach mesmerized him, her body changing before his eyes. Her wardrobe transformed, under Polly's direction, to stylish shift dresses. The cut accentuated Mary's long legs and burgeoning belly. She refused any form of belt, instead yanked and restitched the seams to snatch just above her growing belly.

Despite continued protests, Tommy treated Mary like a porcelain doll. He disallowed her in and out of Birmingham, relocating family meeting's to Cheshire. When he decided she shouldn't be bent over for hours in the sun, their gardens became his own pet project. Under her careful direction he spent evenings wrist deep in dirt, weeding and tilling, tending to the plants. Mary never tired of telling him how deeply out of place he looked, on his knees wearing worn gardening gloves. Despite his best efforts, he was still a man best suited to city streets and cigarettes. As best he could, he cut back on his time spent in the Shelby office, preferring his country home and the company of his wife.

Looking at her now, Tommy mentally counted the months until their child arrived. Her unwavering faith in him, as a husband and father, had restored his confidence. The fears that invaded his every waking moment, had slowly abated. This made ample space for worrying about Churchill and orchestrating the assassination. In the last month, Tommy had come to terms with the reality that Churchill could count him as collateral damage, to be disappeared by end of day tomorrow. With this thought in mind, Tommy had written a detailed letter to the New York Times chief editor, an assurance against any Blinder or his beloved Mary being implicated in his plans. Looking at his wife and family now, he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

The doors to his office opened to reveal the remaining Shelby's. When Arthur commented on their lateness, John waved him off, scowling.

"You look well, sister," Esme said, as she sat beside Mary.

"Tea, Mary," Polly said, handing her a mug. It smelled faintly of lemon and ginger, turning the air crisp.

Arthur rapped his glass against the table top, "We're ready, Tom."

Tommy's expression turned serious as he detailed their marching orders. His plan for Epsom was simple, the Blinders, with the help of the Lee boys, would overrun Sabini's bookies. Confiscating his takings and destroying his licenses, effectively destroying Sabini's holdings, and neatly dispatching him and his family from the racing circuit.

"Tell the boys they're to bring loaded firearms tomorrow."

Arthur and John exchanged looks, Arthur cleared his throat, "Tom-"

"I know," Tommy cut him off, lighting a cigarette as he spoke. "If you're lifted at the racetracks with a loaded weapon, you get twenty years."

They waited, as always, Tommy was two steps ahead.

"There'll be no coppers to worry about tomorrow."

"No coppers at the races," Polly said around a humorless laugh. "Since when."

"Tomorrow at three o'clock there will be an incident at the owner's enclosure,"Tommy said. "All of the coppers on the tracks will be diverted."

Tommy caught the slow stiffening of Mary's shoulders, as she realized what was to happen at three o'clock that would draw attention away from Sabini's bookies.

"What kind of diversion," Polly asked.

"The coppers will be looking for someone," Tommy replied.

Arthur cut in, gruffly demanding, "Looking for who."

"Me," Tommy returned easily. "They'll be looking for me, so you and the boys will have no trouble doing what needs to be done."

Arthur made a noise of discontent, "What happens at three o'clock, Tom."

"You make your move-"

"He means your diversion," Polly interrupted, interest equally piqued. "What could you possibly do that'll make every copper at the tracks look the other way."

"It's no one's concern but mine," Tommy said. He hadn't revealed Churchill's orders to anyone besides Mary, not wanting to involve or implicate his family any more than necessary. 

"Tom-"

He ignored Arthur's brief interjection, continuing, "You'll round up the boys early, I want to be on the tracks by noon."

Arthur offered a grunting reply, "Alright, brother."

"That'll be all until tomorrow," Tommy said, discarding his cigarette, already reaching for another. Arthur and John disappeared to make arrangements, caps pulled low. Esme trailed behind, expression suggesting she had an opinion to offer. Tommy ignored her, watching as Polly prepared to leave.

"I'll need to see you tomorrow morning, Poll," he said. "Before the races."

She barely acknowledged his request, fed up with his close kept secrets. Tommy watched her go, releasing a sigh.

"You'll have no help tomorrow," Mary said quietly, pulling his attention. "At three o'clock, it'll be you against every copper at the races."

He shook his head, "I'm only worried about one man."

"Then we have that in common," she returned.

"Mary-"

She shook her head, lifting a hand to silence him, "Let me worry, Tommy. What else can I do."

He accepted this, nodding silently.

"Will you go to Birmingham now," she asked. 

"Not today, no."

She stood, dressed in petal pink, a color reminiscent of her wedding gown. Crossing the room she collected her hat and coat, draped over the back of a chair along the wall. 

"I'll be in the garden."

Tommy watched as she buttoned her coat, senses easily seduced. For every button she hooked, his mind's eye imagined its undoing. When her gaze lifted to his, she blushed, having read the wanting in his eyes.

"When will you be finished."

"Soon," he replied. "As soon as I can."

Mary crossed the room, kissing his cheek before exiting the office. Tommy's chin depressed to his chest for a moment, collecting his thoughts he returned to plotting. Cigarette slunk between his lips, Tommy retook his chair, studying the singular photo Churchill had provided. His target stared back at him, unsmiling, a man who didn't yet know his fate.

As promised, hours later, Tommy joined Mary outside, removing the tools from her hands and bundling her into a chair he'd dragged from the great room. The cushions at either arm had begun to fatigue, the rich color fading, after so many hours spent in the sun. Dutifully he moved it to and from the house each afternoon, so Mary had somewhere comfortable to perch as he worked.

They stayed outside until sundown, Tommy unwilling to let the day end, knowing what tomorrow might bring. While Mary seemed content for his company, if she was worried, she hid it well. Laying in bed that evening, Tommy pulled her close to his side, eyes shut, knowing sleep would be elusive. Mary laid a hand to his chest, covering his heart beat with her palm.

"Try and sleep," she said softly.

"I will," he returned, kissing her temple. By the time gray morning had begun to seep through the windows, Tommy had dosed for maybe an hour or two, mind whirring towards what was to come.

* * *

He left Mary in Cheshire, instructing her to stay home. When he arrived at the Shelby office, Polly was inside, awaiting his arrival.

"Poll."

She was standing alongside the safe, dark hair coming undone around her shoulders. Her expression was worn out, she looked no happier to see him, then he was to make this request.

"What now, Tom."

"I need a favor," he said, moving deeper into the room, producing a letter from beneath the cut of his dark vest.

"What kind."

"You'll mail this," Tommy said, lifting the letter between them. "If something goes wrong at the races."

"Goes wrong," Polly repeated, eyes narrowed. "And what are you anticipating going wrong."

"Just mail it, Poll."

She refused to be put off, "Is this a letter to your wife."

Tommy's gaze turned brittle, "It's about insurance."

Polly shook her head, "You'll have to do better than that." 

"I'm not asking, I'm telling you-"

She snatched the letter out of his hands, reading the name and address he'd penned.

"Poll-"

"What kind of insurance, Tom."

He didn't reply, jaw tensed.

"This letter is addressed to a man in New York."

"It has to do with my distraction," Tommy relented. "It's insurance against what I plan to do."

Polly stared at him, "What have you told Mary."

"As much as I could."

Her brow lifted at this, surprised in spite of herself, "Have you."

Tommy nodded, plugging his mouth with a cigarette.

"And this," Polly said, indicating his letter.

"No," Tommy replied. "Not this."

"When will you learn," Polly shook her head, slapping the letter to the desk at her back. Resigned to do his bidding.

"See that it's done, Poll."

Before she could reply, Tommy turned on his heel, prepared to round up the Blinders.


	32. Chapter 32

Epsom was fit to burst, women in gauzy hats and men in pinstripes everywhere you turned. Tommy was unadjusted to playing the part of inconspicuous. Better suited to making his presence known and demanding what he wanted. Despite his baser urges to be finished with the assassination and gone, he kept steady tabs on his target, Henry Russell. Russell was impossible to miss in the crowd, standing nearly half a head taller than every man around him, wearing a crisp uniform and cap. With Arthur, John and their reinforcements stationed alongside the pitches, waiting for their three o'clock cue, Tommy kept one eye trained on the clock.

At a half past two, Tommy made his way through the bar area. Russell hadn't moved in over an hour. Sitting with two other men in uniforms, smoking and drinking, unaware of impending danger. Tommy leaned an elbow to the bar, ordering whiskey, trying to curb his impatience.

Drink in hand he turned, brought up short by Polly at his back. Surprise lit his expression, "Poll-"

"I couldn't stop her coming, Tom," she said. "So I did the next best thing and made sure she didn't come alone."

Tommy frowned, confused, "What are talking about-"

Mary appeared on his periphery, and the sentence died on his lips.

"I'll leave you to explain yourself," Polly said, already stepping aside.

"What did you say to her," Tommy demanded. Polly ignored his question, finding a table along the tent wall and sitting down. Tommy squeezed his eyes shut, scrambling for some semblance of control.

"Thomas."

He turned towards Mary, snapping up her arm to draw her further down the bar, away from the crowd.

"What the fuck are you doing here." 

Her chin notched as she replied, "I read your letter to the New York Times."

Under better circumstances he would have told her how beautiful she looked. She wore a light blue coat and gloves, her hair was mostly covered by a cloche hat, only a few curls lingered around her forehead and temples. The cool weather had ripened her cheeks and mouth. Despite her steely expression, the disappointment thinning the line of her lips, she was impossibly lovely. Tommy had the sudden urge to abandon his post and see her home.

Steeling himself against this thought, he ground out, "It wasn't meant for you, Mary."

She shook her head, "No, it wasn't."

"I mean to do this alone," Tommy said. "And whether I live or die, I have no intention of taking any Shelby with me."

"It's too late for that."

Mary produced a photograph from her coat pocket. Henry Russell's unsmiling face stared back at him. Tommy roped her wrist, grip punishing for a moment, before he forced his temper back.

"Where did you get this."

"Your office," she returned, without an ounce of remorse.

"Jesus-"

"I'll go to him myself and guard him with my life," Mary said, expression fierce. "If it means saving you-"

Tommy's vision went red, his next words were laced with fury, "You mean to move against me, Mary Shelby. To stand in my way-"

"I'd rather stand beside you, Thomas," she shot back. "But you're leaving me with little choice."

"I want you out of here," he commanded, mouth barely moving around his clenched jaw. He checked the clock at their back, cursing when he saw it was nearly quarter of three. "Now-"

"What assurance can you give me that you'll come home tonight."

"You're the one who's always telling me I'm not god," Tommy snarled. "And now you want fucking assurances-"

"Your life isn't worth a export license-"

"I have no intention of dying."

"And Churchill," Mary pressed. "What of his intentions."

He shot both hands through his hair, unsettling his cap in the process.

"I don't have time for this, Mary, you-"

Polly's voice interrupted him, "You have ten minutes, Tom."

He was midturn when Mary stopped him short, "Don't turn around."

Tommy frowned, opening his mouth to question her request, but Polly was already talking.

"In ten minutes, he'll be in the fourth stall below the stands," she said, eyes on the bartender, maintaining the appearance she wasn't engaging with Tommy or Mary as she spoke. "I'll make sure he stays there until you arrive."

From his vantage point, Tommy noticed Russell watching the bar, specifically Polly. It was then that Tommy realized they'd played him, Polly attracting Russell's attention, while Mary diverted his.

He drew Mary into his chest, pinning her between himself and the edge of the bar. The motion brought him and Polly shoulder to shoulder, some two feet away from one another. Anonymity intact on both counts. Tommy kept his eyes on Mary, while directing his question to Polly, "What have you two planned."

"He bought me a drink," Polly replied easily. "And when he got close enough to have a look down my dress, I removed the gun from his belt."

"Poll-"

"He hasn't noticed," she said. "Nor should he, at least not until you've got him alone and he reaches for it."

When Tommy offered nothing more than a noise of discontent, Polly added, "Did you forget who taught you to pick pockets, Tom."

He shook his head, knuckles running the line of Mary's jaw, tipping her chin, "And you distracted me."

"Easily, I'd say," Mary returned, mouth twisted against a smile.

"I'll see that he's waiting," Polly said, disappearing across the room towards Russell.

"There's no room for mistakes now," Mary said. Tommy read the worry lingering in her eyes, understanding their intention was to offer a witness if Churchill attempted to eliminate Tommy after the assassination.

"No," he agreed finally, palms running the length of her arms. "No, there's not."

Releasing a heavy breath he pulled her momentarily closer, mouth to her temple, "I'll find you when this is through."

"I'll be waiting," she said, eyes flickering briefly to the clock. It was two minutes to three, Polly had just led Russell out of the tent and towards the stands. Tommy counted to fifty, before turning to follow. He delivered a lasting kiss to Mary's lips before he went, murmuring, "I love you," against her mouth.

"I love you, Tommy."

He left her alongside the bar, hating to leave her, but understanding the danger would be far greater if his plan didn't stay on course. He entered the stalls beneath the stands, the smell of straw and urine hitting him squarely. Tommy removed the gun from his belt, preparing the safety. He ran into a single copper, gun in hand, he knocked the man unconscious and continued on his way. The crowd above was riotous, the noise deadening from below.

At the fourth stall, he extended his arm, gun poised as he pressed back the curtains acting as a makeshift door. Polly was standing along the far wall, wilting under Russell's unwanted attentions.

"Russell-"

At the sound of his name, the man turned, Tommy fired, cursing liberally when the gun jammed against his hand. Russell reached for his waist, fingers grasping for a weapon that wasn't there. It bought Tommy an extra second, he turned his gun over in his hand, unable to assess the issue quickly enough. Russell had his hands around Tommy's throat, squeezing. The air was knocked from his lungs as his back met the wood partition, Tommy wheezed, thumbs driving into Russell's eye sockets to lessen his grip.

Tommy was vaguely aware of Polly, proffering Russell's gun from the depths of her handbag. Before he could react, Russell drove his fist into Tommy's ribs, then his unprotected face. Tommy rallied, jerking his knee into Russell's side, and head butting him to force him backwards. As Russell stumbled, howling, both hands to his ruined nose, Tommy skirted past. He snatched the gun from Polly's hands, aimed, and pulled the trigger, painting the stall with blood. Tommy and Polly watched as Russell's body slumped downward, death turning his face waxy.

"Are you alright, Tom-"

"Go, Poll," he instructed. "Find Mary, now-"

Polly was instantly in motion, cutting through the curtains and out of sight. Tommy stared between Russell and the gun in his hands, breathing heavily, job finally done. He sought relief, and when none came, muttered a curse and turned on his heel. He alerted two coppers to the killing, claiming he heard shouting and gun shots, pointing them in the direction of Russell's felled body. Stepping back into the crowd, Tommy adjusted his cap, prepared to seek out Sabini.

* * *

When Polly returned to the bar, Mary was exactly where Tommy had left her, dark eyes trained on the clock. The room had cleared out as the races began, the bartender was polishing glasses, finally faced with quiet.

"Mary-"

She turned, panicked to find Tommy nowhere in sight.

"It's done," Polly said. "Tommy's fine."

"Where is."

"Likely looking for Sabini," Polly replied, hands shaking as she lit a clove cigarette.

Mary reached out to pause the motion, seeking Polly's gaze, "Did he hurt you."

Polly shook her head, "Tommy was there in time."

Mary released her, relived, offering, "Thank you."

"You're family," Polly returned by way of explanation.

Mary watched her slow inhale, grateful that Polly come to her after Tommy's visit to the Shelby office, letter in hand. While Tommy's fury in the face of their united front had been absolute, it had very likely ensured his safety.

"Tommy's gun jammed."

Mary frowned, "What-"

"He fired at Russell, and it jammed," Polly said, shaking her head. "He shot the man with his own gun."

Mary shuddered at this, sorry that Polly was privy to the violent encounter.

"It's half past," Polly said, eyes on the clock. "It's time to find Arthur and John."

They exited the tent, pausing to watch Tommy's chaos reign around them. The smell of Sabini's burning licenses was evident in the air, the bookies scattered about the course, counting up their losses. Coppers continued to rush towards the Crown's enclave to offer protection as word of Henry Russell's death spread. It was clear the Blinders and Lee's had worked uninterrupted as Tommy enacted his distraction.

"We'll wait outside," Polly said, lacing her arm through Mary's, guiding her through the crowd. Once outside, Polly and Mary found chairs, watching as Blinders and the Lee's filtered one by one, little by little, through the gates to the track. The area outside remained mostly empty, a large dirt field set off from the roadway.

Eventually, John, and then Arthur, appeared, both with flasks in hand.

"How did it go," Polly asked, blowing smoke.

Arthur lifted his whiskey in salute, "Bloody well."

"Sabini's fucking done," John affirmed.

"Still no sign of Tommy," Mary said, beginning to frown.

"He's in with Sabini," Arthur replied, sitting down beside her and removing his cap. He was sweating despite the cool air, Mary noticed cocaine ringing his nostrils.

"Alone," Mary said, brow lifted.

"That's the way he wanted it," Arthur nodded.

"That's the way he always wants it," John muttered around lighting a fresh cigarette.

Arthur made no reply, biting back another swig of whiskey.

"Not always," Polly said quietly, matching Mary's gaze with a knowing look. The two split a smile, pleased with their earlier efforts.

John pulled up a chair beside Polly, handing her his flask as he sat down. Mary removed her hat, running a hand through her hair, unsettling pins in the process. The cool breeze felt good against her forehead, she closed her eyes, willing her body to relax. Eventually, Mary eased her shoulder against Arthur's, tired of worrying, tired from too many sleepless nights, falling into fatigue. Arthur accepted her weight without comment.

It wasn't long after, Tommy appeared at the mouth of the racetrack's gates. He was smoking a cigarette, the skin beneath his right eye beginning to purple from Russell's punch. His cap was stuffed into the pocket of his jacket, revealing his crystalline eyes to the setting sun. At the sight of him, John stood to lift his glass, the lingering Blinders raising a cheer.

Mary straightened, Arthur coming to attention beside her, shouting Tommy's name. She rose, pressing past John, towards Tommy. He lifted Mary into his arms, squeezing her as he murmured her name over and over.

"You're safe," Mary said, running her fingers over his face, tasting relief like a drug.

"No thanks to you," Tommy replied. "And Poll."

"It's all for love, Tommy," Mary returned, mouth pressed to his. Arthur's arm rounded their shoulders respectively, cajoling, celebrating. John wasn't far behind, and Charlie after him. They smelled of whiskey up close, pressing drinks into Tommy's hands, making plans to leave for the Garrison. When Arthur requested Tommy hesitated, sipping whiskey before he offered a reply.

"We'll go," Tommy finally agreed, arm to Mary's shoulders. "Not for long, but we'll go."

They piled into cars and trucks, making their way back to Birmingham. Mary sat against Tommy's side as he drove, grateful for the feel of his arm around her shoulders.

"You outsmarted me today, Mary Shelby."

She tipped her chin, studying his profile. He was worn out, hair irreverent freed from his cap. Despite the day behind him, his eyes remained sharp as tacks, set to glow in the nighttime.

"Are you angry," she asked quietly.

Tommy released a breath, then, "No."

"Polly came to me with the letter because she wanted you safe," Mary said. "We both wanted you safe."

"No more risks," he returned, shaking his head. "Not for you, and not for the baby."

"And you," she said, brow lifted.

"The less risk, the better," Tommy replied, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

By the time Tommy pulled up to the Garrison, and guided Mary inside, the bar was full. Arthur and John were already inside, pouring whiskey for the crowd. Mary shed her coat, smiling at Harry behind the bar. Polly and Esme waved her to the opposite end of the bar, sharing a bottle to themselves.

An hour into their revelry, Tommy snared Mary's attention from across the room, head tipped towards the door. She nodded, beginning to peel herself free from Polly and Esme. Polly helped her into her coat, adjusting the lapels around her growing belly. Mary delivered a kiss to either woman's cheek before turning towards Tommy's outstretched hand.

They were nearly to the door when Arthur shouted Tommy's name, glass lifted, "To the king of Birmingham."

Tommy scowled at his brother's antics. John joined in, glass extended, grinning.

Mary cupped Tommy's cheek, fighting a smile, "Let them have their fun."

The doors to the Garrison opened to their left. Tommy ignored the noise, kissing Mary soundly.

"Thomas Shelby."

Mary looked up at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, distressed to see a man she didn't recognize with a gun in his hand. Before anyone could move or react, he pulled the trigger. The gunshot was deafening, despite the noise of the bar. It took Mary a moment to realize Tommy hadn't been shot. Instead, she had taken the bullet just above her own heart, somewhere between her collarbone and left shoulder.

"Mary-"

Tommy's expression degenerated, panicked, catching her as she collapsed. She bled over both of them. 

Mary offered an unconvincing smile, "Barely hurts at all."

He saw for lie for what it was, shouting for help, Polly flashed by, then Arthur. Mary steadied her gaze on his face, prepared to die, if she could do it looking at Tommy. 

He cupped her cheek, offering a singular warning, "You'll regret leaving me again, Mary Shelby."

"I won't be far," Mary replied, vision beginning to fatigue, blurring black at the edges. Tommy placed more pressure on the wound, voice fading as she lost consciousness.


	33. Chapter 33

Tommy waited outside of the hospital, pacing the street. He smoked incessantly, ignoring his aching ribs, likely cracked from his struggle with Russell. Arthur and John dealt with the man who shot Mary, he was beaten bloody and tied up in the Garrison's store room. Under Tommy's keen instructions, he was questioned but kept alive, any death blow would come from Tommy's hand, and his hand alone.

It didn't take Arthur long to determine he'd been sent by Sabini, as retribution for Tommy's display at the races. When the man revealed the bullet was meant for Tommy, Arthur drove to the hospital to deliver the news and a bottle of whiskey.

"It's not safe, Tom," Arthur reasoned. "You should be in Cheshire, or Birmingham behind closed ranks-"

Tommy's expression iced, "I'm not going fucking anywhere without my wife."

Arthur lifted both hands in surrender, "Alright, brother."

"I'll stay with him," Polly said, knowing it might not be enough if Sabini planned another attack, but unsure of an alternative.

"I'll round up the boys," Arthur replied, resigned. "We'll be close by."

Tommy's back was already turned, he was in the process of lighting another cigarette. Arthur drove away, prepared to station Blinders along the road and wait for news of Mary's condition. 

As the temperature dropped, Polly pulled her coat tighter against her shoulders. Tommy remained impenetrable, the wind, nor the cooling nighttime seemed to faze him.

After an hour of silence, Tommy's voice broke between them.

"I love her."

Polly tipped her head, waiting for him to elaborate.

"I love her, Poll," Tommy continued, shaking his head. "I don't even know her, but I love her-"

Polly understood quickly, he was thinking of his unborn child, caught in the crossfire. Her expression softened at Tommy's admission, he'd never needed to invest his love in something or someone he couldn't see. He was charting new territory, and with Mary suddenly ripped from his arms, he was doing so alone. 

"Of course you do," Polly returned.

"And Mary-"

He broke off, voice rough. 

"My wife," he exhaled. "My fucking wife."

"She's not dead, Tom," Polly cut in. "She's in surgery, but she's not dead."

"I was close, Poll," he said, continuing as though she hadn't spoken at all. "So fucking close."

Polly stood, motionless, watching him fall apart and then drag himself back together, like the ebb and flow of a wave on water. Tommy tipped his face to the sky, breathing choppy, "Nearly got fucking everything-"

His voice crescendoed to shout, eyes bright with tears. He stayed that way, eyes trained upwards, unmoving. The cigarette between his fingers turned to ash.

"And now-"

"Tommy Shelby," Polly snapped up the distance between them, forcing his attention. "Your wife hasn't left you. Don't you dare mourn her, not now, not yet."

He crouched, head in his hands, the weight of his sadness finally too heavy to stand.

Polly laid a hand to his shoulder, "She's strong, she'll come back to you."

Tommy said nothing in return, allowing tears to course down his face, unable to hold them at bay. Polly maintained her grip on his coat, anchoring him, eyes skyward as she mouthed a silent prayer. One part demand, one part request. That Mary Shelby and the child inside her be delivered from surgery, alive and well. For all their sakes.

* * *

It was nearly morning before an orderly charted the grounds, searching for Tommy. He was bleary eyed, having spent the night pacing and drinking. Polly was in no better shape, sporting dark circles beneath both eyes.

"Mr. Shelby."

The woman was dressed in stark white, expression suggesting she hadn't volunteered for this job. Tommy faced her, steeled against the worst case scenario, blue eyes desolate.

"Your wife is out of surgery and in recovery. You can see her, if you'd like."

Polly moved closer, demanding, "And the baby."

"There's been no bleeding," the orderly shook her head. "Everything seems fine."

Polly released an audible breath of relief, chin tipped back, praising some higher power. Tommy discarded his cigarette, wordless, already moving towards the hospital entrance. The orderly scurried to keep up. He was led down three winding hallways and into Mary's room. Tommy was vaguely aware of Polly's voice in the hall, demanding to use a phone.

"I'll leave you alone," the orderly said, grateful to get away from him. Tommy approached the bed, removing his cap in the process. Mary was on her back, sheets tucked to her waist. Her skin was devoid of color, so white she glowed in the dimly lit room. She was heavily bandaged from rib to shoulder, the gauze stopped just shy of her rounding stomach.

Tommy laid a hand to her cheek, voice was hoarse, crackling with regret, "Mary-"

When Polly arrived he was knelt at Mary's bedside, holding one of her hands, head bent against the mattress. Polly immediately dragged a chair from the wall, forcing Tommy into it.

"Stay with her," she said. "I'll take care of the rest."

Tommy's response was muffled in the sheets. Polly left them alone, seeking Arthur, laying next steps in Tommy's absence.

Mary slept through the morning and into the afternoon. Tommy didn't leave her side, keeping their hands connected. A rotation of doctors had been in and out of the room, each treated to the same growled warning. If Mary didn't survive the day, Tommy had every intention of burning the building, and its staff, into the ground. Polly checked on him every few hours, bringing bits of news, otherwise standing silently alongside him. Tommy was mostly unresponsive, accepting her company without comment.

At half past six, Mary opened her eyes. Tommy's relief was overwhelming, when he tried to speak her name, his throat constricted with emotion. Her brow knit at the sight of the unfamiliar room, "Tommy-"

"You're safe, Mary," he murmured, standing to press a kiss to her forehead. She reached for him, wincing halfway through the motion. He pressed her arms gently to the mattress, willing her still. "It's alright, you're in the hospital."

Mary's expression transformed, her last conscious moments rushing back to her. Immediately panicked, she sought Tommy's gaze, "The baby-"

"You're both safe," Tommy soothed, hand eclipsing her stomach. Mary's eyes fluttered shut, relief softening her mouth. "How do you feel."

"Fine," she replied easily.

"Liar," Tommy returned without a moment's hesitation. Mary opened her eyes to seek his gaze, a wry smile on her lips. He was right, she felt like hell.

After a moment she asked, "Who shot me."

"One of Sabini's dogs."

"Revenge," Mary said. "For your day at the races."

"They were aiming for me."

He hated saying the words, nearly as much as he hated hearing them. Regret burned a hole clean through his gut. He straightened, turning away from her for a moment.

"Tommy-"

"I promised to keep you safe," he said.

Mary was quiet, then, "How could you have protected me, when we didn't know what Sabini planned to-"

"I made you a promise, Mary," he cut in, angry with himself, and angrier still that she was willing to absolve him. "If you'd married a different man, you wouldn't have to worry about stray bullets."

"If I wanted to marry a different man, I would have," Mary returned evenly.

Tommy sank into the chair beside her bed, both hands scraping through his hair. He sought relief, for her awakening, their child untouched by Sabini's wrath, her absolution, but instead, he felt rage.

"Tommy, I need you to look at me."

He was motionless, unable to fulfill her request for another half a minute. When he finally lifted his head, his expression was drawn in tight lines, blue eyes burning. She stared back at him, cheek turned into the pillow behind her head, gold curls spun up around her face like a halo.

"Were you holding the gun."

Tommy stared at her, "No."

"Then you're not at fault," Mary said, tone firmed against any further argument he might make.

A beat later, Polly was in the doorway. Upon seeing Mark awake, she shouted for a doctor before quickly entering the room. Tommy watched as Polly lifted Mary's hand to her cheek, lovingly, hazel eyes wet with tears of relief.

"It's good to see you awake," Polly said, gently replacing Mary's hand against the sheets. Mary smiled up at her as a doctor arrived, prepared to check her stitches and wrappings. Tommy eased away from Mary's bedside, standing nearby, unwilling to let her too far out of his sight. Mary barely reacted as the doctor performed his slow check-up, dark eyes trained on the ceiling, expression serene.

"Call Arthur, Poll," Tommy instructed. Polly nodded, exiting the room to complete the task. Tommy's mind turned to Sabini's man, still holed up in the basement of the Garrison, awaiting his justice.

As an orderly appeared with fresh bandages, Mary announced, "I want to go home."

The doctor alongside her bed shook his head immediately, "Your injury was severe, Mrs. Shelby, I don't think-"

"When will she be well enough to move," Tommy cut in.

The doctor faced him, beginning to look nervous, "Five days at least, but I would recommend care for at least another month."

"In five days Mrs. Shelby will come home," Tommy replied. "And I'll pay you to attend to her."

The doctor and orderly exchanged brief looks, "My duties here-"

"I'll pay you substantially more than what you're making now," Tommy cut in, unmoved. When the doctor continued to look unconvinced, Tommy took a singular step closer, "It's not a request. I'm telling you, you'll care for my wife at home."

"Tommy-"

The doctor held up his hands, agreeing, before Mary could protest Tommy's methods.

"Five days," Tommy affirmed. "And you'll stay as long as she needs you."

"Five days," the doctor nodded, keen on leaving the room before Tommy requested anything further. The moment they were alone, Tommy retook his seat, gathering up Mary's hand.

"You didn't have to threaten the man, Tommy," Mary admonished, eyes drifting shut.

"You'll be safer at home," he replied.

"I'm safest with you," she returned easily. Tommy released a pent up breath, trying to believe it was true. "I'm tired, Tommy."

"Sleep, sweetheart," he said, kissing her knuckles. "I'll be right here."

Mary fell into an uneasy sleep, her breathing shallow from the bandages around her chest. Tommy nodded off at her side, head bowed, woken again and again by dreams of the shooting. Eventually he gave up, eyes trained on Mary's face, mind singularly focused on seeking retribution against Sabini.


End file.
